


The Road to Hell

by An_Obstinate_Headstrong_Girl



Series: The Life We Chose [1]
Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Attempted Historical Accuracy for some things, Buckle up folks, Culper Ring, Discussions of slavery, Extended Moments of Peril, F/M, Found Family, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Kidnapping, Long-Distance Relationship, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Near Death Experiences, Original Character(s), Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Strained Relationships, Trauma, Wildly Inaccurate Historical Timelines, Yearning, badass female characters, cliffhanger ending, definitely not a focus of the story i just didn't know how to tag it, hint of a sort-of love triangle if you squint, pining too, so much yearning, this is long as hell, yes I know yet another benxofc no one asked for I'm sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:55:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 78,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25790959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/An_Obstinate_Headstrong_Girl/pseuds/An_Obstinate_Headstrong_Girl
Summary: “In that moment, she swore to herself and to God she wouldn’t look away, not even for an instant. They could jeer and spit at her. They could shackle her, arrest her, beat her. Margaret Roe would not look away.”1776: Setauket, Long Island. The worst year of Margaret Roe’s life.After devastating losses, Margaret reaches out a hand to Anna Strong in order to heal what has been broken. As the lifelong friends cling to each other under the looming shadow of war, the last thing they expect is to find Abraham Woodhull in a hay barn with a proposition from Margaret’s erstwhile fiance: an insane, impossible plan of childhood friends forming an intelligence ring for the Continental Army. Through secrets, friendship, loss, lies, heartbreak, murder, and love, Margaret soon realizes the trials of 1776 are only the first steps into the fight of her life.
Relationships: Anna Strong & Original Female Character(s), Anna Strong/Abraham Woodhull, Benjamin Tallmadge/Original Female Character(s), Caleb Brewster & Benjamin Tallmadge, Caleb Brewster & Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Life We Chose [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1870957
Comments: 42
Kudos: 35





	1. Prologue: Counter-Insurgency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You cannot buy the revolution. You cannot make the revolution. You can only be the revolution. It is in your spirit, or it is nowhere.” Ursula K. Le Guin - The Dispossessed
> 
> “I felt a painful stitch throughout my body that I knew stitched my tears to my soul.” Alice Walker - Possessing the Secret of Joy
> 
> “I’m sorry there is so much pain in this story.” Margaret Atwood - The Handmaid's Tale

_Prologue_

Counter-Insurgency

_September 10 th, 1776_

_Setauket, Long Island_

Margaret Roe did not look away from the moment the rope was placed around her brother’s neck until his last gasp of breath. 

The redcoats arrived in Setauket in September. Only days before his untimely death, Austin Roe was one of the few men who loudly and defiantly rebelled against their occupation. He read and discussed patriot pamphlets in Strong Tavern, standing on a stool to raise his head and voice above the crowd; he was met with conflicting responses from the townsfolk as well as an encouraging nod and resolved smile from his best friend, the tavern owner himself. Austin would leave the tavern and walk around town, handing out copies of the pamphlets to anyone who would take them and showing open disregard for any British soldier he came across - few of which were bold enough to challenge the tall, broad-shouldered blacksmith with a wildness in his eyes.

Margaret spent the days shut up in their house, writing out copies of the pamphlets for him to distribute, but took no public action at the behest of her much older brother, who insisted she not put herself in danger — he could not bear losing the last of his family.

He did not, however, seem concerned that she felt the same.

When the tensions finally reached a boiling point, Austin took one look at the menacing soldiers on his front stoop, manacles in hand, and without hesitation used every advantage his considerable strength from a lifetime of smithing and raw, righteous fury afforded him; only succumbing to defeat upon the arrival of reinforcements – bloodied and beaten, and incapable of fighting five men at once.

That fateful afternoon, Margaret was at Dejong’s store, knowing nothing of her brother being arrested and taken to Major Hewlett’s garrison for a swift execution until she arrived home to a door hanging askew on one hinge and the only response to her call an echo of her own frightened voice. She promptly abandoned her items on the entryway floor and sprinted the entire way to the hastily constructed gallows, where she saw the only family that remained to her being dragged across the green with four other dissenters. 

She skidded to a halt upon reaching the gathering crowd and began shoving her way through to the front; she had made it almost halfway when realization of who she was rippled through the crowd, several vocal Tories pushing back against her, not allowing her to pass. Growing desperate to make it to her brother before it was too late, Margaret roughly elbowed and shoved at those around her even as they tightened, cutting off her path forward. Her chest constricted as her breath moved in and out of her lungs faster than she could control. She had almost given in to the urge to scream, hoping to startle her cruel neighbors into moving when an impossibly tall figure cut its way through to her, sheltering her with a gentle arm tight around her shoulders as a decidedly rougher arm began harshly clearing the bystanders to allow her to pass.

Craning her neck, Margaret saw the sorrowful face of Selah Strong through blurry vision as he stonily glared ahead, daring any onlooker to try and stop their advance. Breaking through the front of the crowd, Margaret greedily sucked in the fresh air as she spotted the disheveled figure of Austin and ran towards him, leaving Selah behind. She cried out to him, ignoring the rifles being cocked and aimed at her by the soldiers stationed around the prisoners until a familiar arm wrapped around her waist and Selah was there again, holding her to himself, holding her back, his deep voice in her ear telling her to stop until the men shouldered their arms even as she strained and struggled against him, her brother’s dearest friend preventing her from meeting his fate. Hot tears finally broke free, flowing down her cheeks as she shrieked out a plea to be allowed to say goodbye. 

Margaret distantly registered Hewlett’s command to his men to stand down, surging forward the moment Selah released her, not stopping until she threw her arms around her brother’s shoulders for the last time, pulling ever closer as if she could meld him to her side, never to be separated. With his hands bound in front of him, he was unable to return the embrace but nestled his bloodied face close to her ear, murmuring words meant for no one else to hear. 

Words of the most precious love of a brother. Words of prayers for fortitude and peace. Words of endless repentance. 

_I’m sorry._

_Be strong, brave girl._

_I love you._

_Never stop fighting, Peggy._

_I love you._

_I’m sorry._

_I’m sorry._

_I’m sorry._

Margaret returned his love quickly and fiercely, allowing the words to tumble out without knowing what they would be before they escaped her mouth; she desperately tried to cram everything she never said and everything she could never say again into the few breaths they were allowed together. Though they had briefly discussed the probability of retaliatory action, neither sibling, perhaps naively, had truly entertained the notion it would be on a scale such as this. 

After far too brief a moment, a tall redcoat with pale eyes and a cruel smile violently yanked Austin away, shoving him towards the foreboding structure with the other poor souls who dared to speak their minds and live true to their principles. Watching him push Austin up onto the bench, Margaret would never forget the satisfaction on the soldier’s face as he slipped the rope around the other man’s neck. 

Final words were requested and spoken. Words of love, words of rebellion, words of remorse. Words of liberty and words of death. 

Margaret and Austin's gazes locked, tears streaming from identical sets of light blue eyes. His final words were for her and her alone. In that moment, she swore to herself and to God she wouldn’t look away, not even for an instant, until her brother drew his last breath. The kind, courageous, reckless man deserved better, more, a _lifetime_ more, but that was what she could give him. 

They could jeer and spit at her. They could shackle her, arrest her, beat her. Margaret Roe would not look away.

The bench was knocked from under his legs, the noose tightened, and it was a blessedly brief amount of time before Austin Roe’s body ceased the appalling, macabre dance of the hangman’s noose.

Margaret refused to allow herself even to blink until her brother hung limply before her, the swaying of his body almost hypnotizing her as she realized she hadn’t drawn breath since the bench was gleefully kicked away.

This time, there was no Selah Strong to catch her as Margaret fell to the ground in a dead faint. 

* * *

Twelve days later, not too far from where Margaret sat alone in her grief, another rope tightened around another so-called insurgent without process, integrity, or justice, and Nathan Hale breathed his last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!! Some notes on this story moving forward:  
> First, endless thanks to the wonderful S_Wags for agreeing to beta this behemoth of a fic, I appreciate you more than I can express. Everyone should go read her absolutely lovely fic, “Band of Brothers.”  
> We’ll be following the show’s (historically inaccurate) timeline. I wanted to fudge dates and events to fit the actual timeline of, y’know, history, but when I tried it melted my brain, so inaccurate but show-compliant it shall be. There may be some changes here and there to the sequence of events in specific episodes, but that will be stated in the pre-chapter notes.  
> This will be a full show retelling, and each season will have its own story — four fics in one series.  
> We started off with a short prologue here, but hold on to your butts, folks, because chapter one takes off with 7.5k words (and it’s one of the shorter chapters so far).  
> Don't be afraid to leave comments about anything and everything!  
> Enjoy! -Gin


	2. Chapter One: When Doing Nothing Becomes a Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaret refuses to be alone any longer, and so steps forward to change her future even as she searches for answers in her past. Anna fights a war on multiple fronts. Abe makes decisions. The Setauket trio sees the beginnings of an impossible plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The road to hell is paved with good intentions." Unknown, proverb
> 
> “‘I am alone,’ she whispered. ‘I am alive.’” Yannis Ritsos, Testimonies A
> 
> “Sometimes there aren’t good decisions. Sometimes there’s just decisions.” Justin McElroy, The Adventure Zone: Balance
> 
> “Still, there is this terrible desire to be loved. Still, there is this horror at being left behind.” Michael Cunningham, The Hours

_Chapter One_

When Doing Nothing Becomes a Decision

_October 27th, 1776_

_Setauket, Long Island_

News of Selah Strong’s arrest and subsequent departure for the British prison ship _The Jersey_ spread through the small town of Setauket like wildfire. 

After much deliberation, Margaret settled on what to do before leaving her parents’ house on the outskirts of town that bright October afternoon. It had just passed six weeks since her brother’s death, but she still refused to think of the house as hers alone; rather, she was merely a caretaker for the modest home that was filled with memories of the most precious — and the most horrifying — days of her life. It was the place where she tended to her mother, and then her father, desperately trying to offset their relentless illnesses while Austin worked himself to death in the smithy so they could all scrape by. Where her mother and father had laid in state, only months apart. Where Margaret had been left to pray for her brother’s soul on her own.

Margaret knew she would only leave her home for good when providence guided her to. For all the terrible nights at the forefront of her memory — staying awake by an ailing body to wipe a forehead, say prayers for recovery, offer water or broth — she did her best to recall nights of hands clasped at a dining table thanking God for his many blessings, conversation and laughter around bites of a meal, and sharing food that tasted better simply because it was eaten together. For all the worst nights that consumed her — staying awake by a far too-still body to give a final kiss to a forehead, offer prayers for eternal rest, weep until it felt as though she would never weep again — she forced herself to dwell on nights spent in the drawing room with her parents and brother between first and second sleep, wrapped tightly in a soft blanket and warm love that filled the room, listening to her father read scripture and prayers, bathed in the glow of candlelight. 

And yet even her most precious memories she kept harbored in her very soul did not make Margaret any less alone. In the first weeks following Austin’s funeral, the only emotions she allowed herself to grasp were bitter self-pity and wild rage, railing against the injustice of it all; she was very much afraid that if she allowed sorrow the slightest quarter it would devour her. She left the house only for necessities, and aside from the matrons who kindly laid out her brother’s body, she received no visitors — she had quickly decided to spurn tradition by opting to have the burial the day after his hanging rather than having him lie in state, knowing there would be no visitors, and unable to stomach spending a full week in her childhood home with only her older brother’s remains for company. 

She couldn’t quite find hatred within herself for every member of the farming town — she was now, after all, not only a woman scorned, but also the sister of a condemned patriot, and even those she previously believed she could trust with her life would not risk marking themselves as rebellious as well.

Despite Margaret finding work the past spring, what little was left of the family’s meagre savings ran out less than three weeks after Austin’s death and she found herself at a crossroads. She refused to marry just for security, the consequence of which meant relinquishing all the God-given rights she retained as an unmarried woman. The choice then sat before her: stand up, start providing for herself and living for herself, or lie down and allow herself to reunite with her family. Though tempted by the latter more often than she was comfortable admitting, Margaret was not someone who relished conceding defeat. 

_Breathe in_. _Breathe out_. 

_Decide_. 

The previous May, in desperation to feed her now-diminished family after the money they received from the sale of the smithy began dwindling, Margaret had found a niche for herself doing laundry and mending in Setauket and the neighboring Smithtown, most often for unmarried or widowed men. She had been woefully naive in the beginning, thinking that doing her family’s laundry since she was old enough to do so (to save her often-sick mother the effort) had prepared her to perform such a routine weekly for twice or thrice the number of people, never mind the cost to accumulate enough soap, indigo, and starch to begin with. After talking to various women around town to learn their secrets, however, she built her knowledge and routine over the following months. 

After three weeks of grief, the end of the worst summer of her life saw Margaret emerge to return to business, her purpose renewed and bitterness buried deep — she simply didn’t have the time for it anymore.

Stopping just inside her front door the day following Selah’s forced departure, Margaret tucked a few strands of escaped chestnut colored hair back into her cap and slid her beloved pendant between her comfortable dark blue jacket and her decidedly less comfortable stays. Making sure the long cord of her necklace was covered by her kerchief and resting a large laundry basket on her hip, she set off.

Dropping off bundles of laundry and mending to their owners en route to Strong Manor, the unassuming town of Setauket was livelier than Margaret could remember seeing it (the exception, of course, being early September several weeks before). Few people greeted her, as she was becoming accustomed to, but she could only imagine what everyone was saying about poor Selah — no doubt mocking the arrested patriot congressional delegate. 

Margaret scoffed to herself as she briskly strode about her business. If they only knew just how many hidden patriots remained in the loyal Tory town on the doorstep of York City. 

Finishing her deliveries, Margaret turned onto the path to the Strong estate and felt a growing feeling of apprehension. It wasn’t that she believed she would be unwelcome, or, heaven forbid, turned away at the door, but her relationship with Anna had become almost nonexistent in the weeks since her father’s death. 

After Selah’s intervention at the hanging, he was one of the two volunteers — the other being the kindly Walter Havens — that Reverend Tallmadge could find to take Austin’s body from the gallows to the Roe home, and later to carry his coffin to the churchyard. Though the tense climate about town had calmed down considerably in the following weeks, at the time there hadn’t been a soul — patriot, Tory, or anywhere in between — who wanted to attend a traitor’s funeral. Consequently, the other two pallbearers had both firmly ignored common practice — what damage could it do at this point? — and Reverend Tallmadge and Margaret herself helped carry her brother to his final resting place. It seemed appropriate to her to finally take up a handle herself at the last Roe funeral she would ever attend.

Though Anna met them at the churchyard and stayed with the small party through the funeral, Margaret saw little of her dearest friend in the following weeks. She would always make a point to be kind to Margaret when they ran into each other around town, or when Margaret would discreetly pick up supplies from Selah, but she never came to visit or offered an invitation, and even when they did see each other, she didn’t act quite like herself; at least, she didn’t act quite like the Anna Margaret had known her entire life. 

_My most cherished friend, abandoning me exactly when I needed her most_ , she scoffed to herself. _Just like everyone else._

Margaret shut her eyes, feeling immediate guilt for the thought, and for the bitterness creeping up in the back of her mind. 

_Hush now, you hateful girl. You don’t know her reasons. And just because she couldn’t bring herself to stand by you doesn’t mean you have to leave her to the same fate._

Margaret padded up the back steps to Strong Manor as she had always done, rather than circle around to the front facing the water, and knocked loudly. Waiting somewhat awkwardly, she was about to knock again when she heard muted footsteps from inside the house. When the door swung open, she smiled upon seeing the beautiful, friendly face of Abigail, the Strong’s housemaid — a kind and intelligent woman who had always been friendly with Margaret and the others around her age. 

“Margaret!” Abigail beamed at her in surprise. “It’s wonderful to see you.” Her face fell. “I...I was saddened to hear about your brother’s...passing,” she stumbled. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Margaret blinked back sudden emotion. Hearing someone express sympathy for her grief for a change affected her more than she thought it would. “I thank you for your kind words, Abigail,” she gave her a small smile. “I was wondering if Anna was available?”

Abigail bit her lip. “She’s out back doing laundry and wouldn’t normally take visitors, but…” she discreetly glanced over her shoulder and whispered, “with everything that has happened, I think she would be glad to see a friend.”

Margaret smiled and clasped Abigail’s hand in thanks. “I’ll go to her.”

The two said their goodbyes and Margaret turned around to make her way to the front of the house. As she reached the bottom step, a flash of red caught her eye, and she could see the detestable Lieutenant Simcoe rounding the corner.

_**A rope, chains placed around strong wrists, perverted humor in icy blue eyes.** _

Rolling her shoulders to rid herself of a sudden chill, Margaret quickly rerouted herself around the opposite side of the illustrious house. She would never forget the look on his face as he carried out her brother’s execution. There was something...off about that man, and the less time spent in his presence the better.

“Anna!” Margaret called out as she came down the path, seeing her friend in a brown, pinstriped work dress, dark hair falling out of her cap, staring somewhat vacantly at her house. Margaret had always known Anna to be the pinnacle of strength, loudly holding her own against anyone she needed to but maintaining a kind and supportive nature around those she loved. She now appeared more disheveled in body and spirit than Margaret could recall ever seeing her...with the exception, of course, of a certain would-be lawyer’s return from King’s College.

Anna snapped her head in Margaret’s direction at her friendly shout, startled, before recognizing and approaching her, a strained smile not quite covering the surprised look on her face. 

“Margaret!” Anna said when the two were face to face. “I didn’t expect...it—it’s good to see you,” she stammered.

Margaret gave a faint smile. “I just came to say I...I’m so sorry about what happened to Selah.”

A pained expression on her face, Anna jerked her head in a nod and guided her friend further away from the house and laundry for some privacy. “Thank you, Margaret. I suppose we should’ve expected this, sooner or later,” she replied a bit distantly, crossing her arms.

“With everything that’s happened these past months…” Margaret awkwardly cleared her throat as Anna winced — her purpose here was not to bring up grievances, no matter how fresh. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Still, that doesn’t make it any easier on you. Trust me, I know,” she half-laughed, extending an olive branch by setting a hand on Anna’s arm. “I want to offer my help, in any way I can.”

Anna raised her eyebrows. “You want to—? I don’t understand” she shook her head. “You should hate me,” she whispered, shame piercing her wide, chocolate eyes.

Margaret swallowed hard, removing her hand from Anna’s arm to twist her fingers together. Anna was her truest friend; Margaret could not bring herself to lie to appease her guilty conscience. “I did.” 

Seeing Anna’s crestfallen but unsurprised face, she continued. “I can’t deny that, and I know you’d rather have the truth.”

Anna nodded quickly, crossing her arms against the brisk October wind. Though she ducked her head, Margaret could see her blinking back tears.

“I was...furious. And hurt, my _God_ , I’ve only felt that betrayed once before. But I understood, even then,” Margaret quietly admitted.

“We knew eyes would turn to Selah next, he made the decision he thought was best. I begged him not to, but it was to protect the both of us,” Anna muttered sadly. “It may have been one of the hardest decisions he’s ever made — you know how well he loved Austin, how they grew up together like we did. And he hated deserting you so, Selah loves you as if you were his own sister.”

Margaret shifted uncomfortably under the weight of a long-kept secret from years past, Anna’s final statement ringing falsely in her ears.

“But in protecting ourselves, we deserted you, same as the rest of this God-forsaken town,” Anna spat.

“Not entirely,” she smiled sadly at Anna’s echo of Margaret’s thoughts only minutes earlier. “You and Selah _were_ there when I desperately needed someone — at least for a moment, that is — and perhaps at a time when you were at an even greater risk, and I shan’t forget that. And I shan’t leave you alone now. I know too well what that does to a person.

I had thought perhaps you could hire me as another barmaid in the tavern, to pick up some of Selah’s workload. Some of the customers I used to have for laundry here have kindly declined my services in recent weeks, so if you could pay me whatever you can spare, I have the time to be able to work, and I’ll be making up some of the money I’ve lost.” Margaret replaced her hand on Anna’s arm and squeezed lightly, “I want to _help_ you. Please allow me that.” 

She hesitated, realizing if she was going to be truthful in ways harsh to Anna, she needed to follow suit in regards to herself. “I will also admit that this is partially for entirely selfish reasons. You see, I’m...damn it all, I’m lonely,” she choked out.

She wasn’t particularly thrilled about the idea of having to constantly serve redcoats in the tavern, but for the joy of Anna’s renewed companionship, she would endure. Besides, if she spent any more time entirely alone, she was afraid she would end up going quite mad.

Anna let out a quiet laugh and looked away with a soft smile. “I...all right. I’ll admit, some help in the tavern would be of great use.”

“Good! I’ll start tonight, then. Was that truly so difficult?” Margaret teased, smiling up at Anna in an attempt to lighten her spirits. The act and tone of such a thing as teasing a friend had grown foreign to Margaret and felt almost as a muscle one had not used in a while that needed to be stretched and strengthened.

Anna hesitantly returned the smile, though Margaret noticed her disquietude remained. Believing Anna to be still troubled over their estrangement, she opened her mouth to try and bridge the gap when she abruptly remembered her walk to the house and gripped Anna’s arm more tightly.

“Anna, I saw Lieutenant Simcoe leaving as I got here, has he...done something?” Margaret’s heart was pounding, if that bastard had hurt her, threatened her—

“It’s captain now, actually.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s ‘Captain Simcoe.’ He came here to tell me he purchased Joyce’s commission, and to—” 

“Joyce?” Margaret interrupted, confused. “Captain Joyce? How could Simcoe purchase his commission?”

Anna finally turned her head to meet Margaret’s eyes once again, “Captain Joyce is dead. Murdered.”

Margaret’s eyes widened as she took a step back, “Murdered? Here?”

Anna nodded solemnly, “Yes. I’m afraid he suspects Abraham.”

“ _Abe_? I can’t believe that,” she scoffed. 

“Apparently it’s what Simcoe believes. You heard about the fight in the tavern, I presume?”

Margaret nodded distractedly. A murdered British officer was surprising enough, but to suspect Abraham Woodhull of such a thing was too much to believe. She shook her head. “I apologize, Anna, what were you saying when I interrupted? Something else Simcoe told you.”

Anna shifted uncomfortably. “Yes. Simcoe is to be billeted here, orders of Major Hewlett. Obviously there’s not a thing I can do about it, but he’s…” she trailed off.

“I know,” Margaret nodded. “He’s a vile man. I feel uneasy every time I’m around him.”

Anna nodded miserably, tears of defeat rising in her eyes. Margaret’s mind raced, frantic to find a way to help her friend in a terribly desperate situation. Suddenly, she gripped Anna’s arms again, expression brightening.

“What if I came to live here?”

“What?”

“What if I came to live here?” Margaret repeated, chafing Anna’s arms as she shivered slightly — whether from the brisk wind or severe excess of emotion, Margaret was unsure. “If a room is available, I could stay there; we could eat together, travel to and from the tavern together at times, I’ll help with your laundry, you can help with mine and my mending...it would do me unbelievable good to leave my family’s house for a little while, I know it would, and you know it’s true that there’s power in numbers, what do you say?” she babbled, trying to catch Anna’s eye again.

“I…” Anna paused, considering. 

“And we could...get to know one another again?” Margaret pressed. “It seems awfully silly to me for the both of us to be alone when we could be together.”

The hard countenance that had remained on Anna’s face melted as she looked up, “I think...I think it’s a wonderful idea, thank you.”

The bridge formed, Margaret rose on her toes to throw her arms around Anna’s neck and pull her into a tight hug. Anna responded in kind, burying her face in Margaret’s shoulder, each holding on fiercely, as if the other’s arms might prevent them from breaking apart.

“My sweet, courageous Meg, I love you so,” Anna murmured in her ear.

Margaret’s breath hitched as she found herself in the first true embrace in months. Feeling the first true smile her brother’s last days threaten to overtake her face, she suppressed her sudden emotion, pulling back slightly and smiling wickedly at Anna.

“Well, I figured I ought to help you since we’re all dirty patriots now and I do know quite a lot about how to manage it.”

A startled laugh escaped Anna at her boldness, which Margaret counted as a personal victory.

* * *

_October 29th, 1776_

Margaret awoke with a start. 

She hadn’t intended on dozing off, really, but after the excitement of the past days — starting work at Strong’s Tavern and moving her belongings to her new room in Anna’s home — she had decided to lie down on her bed and rest for only a moment, or so she thought. It was a small room on the second floor next to Anna’s, but certainly comfortable enough. There was a large window opposite the door, which allowed the hazy, warm light of an autumn afternoon to flood the room and offered a comforting view of the Sound. She liked to imagine if she looked hard enough, she’d be able to see Connecticut. The furniture consisted of a writing desk left of the door, a far more comfortable bed than Margaret had ever known and a side table to the right of the door, a wash stand next to the window, and a dresser opposite the bed.

It must have been the commotion that exhausted her, for it certainly wasn’t the unpacking — there was hardly enough there to call it such. Margaret had taken one of her large laundry baskets to fill with all her personal belongings to take to the manor, and it was scarcely more than half-full when she finished. 

Having sold most of her family’s and her own belongings in the months following her parents’ deaths, she was left with a small collection of heirlooms of little monetary value, some simple, unsold furniture left in her parents’ house, her toiletries and brush and mirror set, a precious pair of silver haircombs that were her last birthday gift from her parents, and her small wardrobe of clothes she deemed necessary to keep. Her trousseau now consisted only of several shifts, kerchiefs, and caps, three jackets and petticoats – two cotton and one wool of both – and one much-cherished chintz jacket.

As she rose and stretched, Margaret heard boots clunking up the stairs, undoubtedly one of the lobsters headed to his room. She paused in the midst of straightening her skirts, however, when the heavy footsteps continued past and she heard a soft creak emit from the door next to hers, the master bedroom. Anna’s room.

 _Anna’s room?_

Anna had left to go to the tavern for the rest of the day while Margaret was resting. 

Uneasily sinking back onto the bed with a shakiness spreading from her shoulders to the tips of her fingers, Margaret waited silently, listening intently to muffled rustles emanate from what should be an empty room. After what felt like hours, but was surely only several minutes, the door creaked open again. Heart in her throat, Margaret jumped from the bed, striding to her closed door and crouching, peering through the keyhole as a tall, lanky redcoat passed by. A figure she would likely never forget. Margaret’s eyes widened as she shoved herself away from the door, falling on her arse. 

She felt a shiver run down her spine as if a cold breeze had blown through her room; peering back at the window over her shoulder, she saw it was still closed.

* * *

The day after the incident with Simcoe nosing about in places he certainly didn’t belong Margaret still hadn’t had an opportunity to catch Anna alone and warn her about it. 

Pondering this as she sat on the manor’s porch and worked on mending one of the shirts in her pile, it registered that part of her didn’t want to tell Anna at all, wishing to spare her further unease in her own home. It couldn’t be helped, though. Anna would need to take additional precautions. Margaret set down the shirt with a sharp sigh when she saw Anna walking down the path with yet another basket of laundry. Margaret surged to her feet and headed down the steps towards her, intending to meet her halfway and finally tell her of the terrifying occurrence of the previous day. She barely made it onto the lawn when she saw Anna pause and head to the barn, dropping her basket by a tree. Upon reaching the doorway, a hand shot out and roughly tugged her inside.

Margaret gasped. _No._ Fearing the worst, she hiked her skirts up and raced across the lawn to the barn.

“Anna!” she cried as she shoved her way through the small opening; it was only after her eyes adjusted to the dim light did she register the two familiar, now startled, shapes standing in front of her. 

“Oh thank God it’s you, Abraham,” Margaret huffed. Her eyes widened as she took in his appearance, “Jesus, Abe! What happened to you?”

Anna rushed over, laying a hand on her arm, “Meg, what’s this all about?”

“I saw someone pull you into the barn,” she hissed as she leaned against the barn wall and pressed a hand to her stomach, her stays preventing her from taking as full a breath as she would’ve liked. “I was afraid it…” Margaret trailed off, glancing at Abe. If she thought his expression was alarmed when she barreled into the barn, it was near-comical now.

“Anna, _who_? Who would find it?”

Anna hesitated, locking eyes with Margaret, who had no idea what the “it” was that Abe referred to, but had a fair notion of the “who” he was asking after. Anna looked at her askance, as if unsure what to do. Margaret responded with a look that she hoped conveyed: _for the love of God, tell this worried man in front of you who may be able to help_. Christ knew the two of them alone wouldn’t be able to stave him off for too much longer. 

Anna pursed her lips and looked back to Abe. “Simcoe. The Welshman. The one who put a pistol to your head—”

“Yeah. I know of him.”

Margaret raised her eyebrows. The redcoat threatening the cabbage farmer was certainly news to her. “Simcoe is billeted here,” she filled in. “That’s why I moved in, we thought another woman in the house might be a...well, a safeguard.”

Abe rushed closer to Anna, concern clear on his face, “What’s he done to you? Has he touched you?”

Margaret’s heart clenched in a way that had nothing to do with the exertion of running while wearing stays. Gazing at the friends of her youth, she felt the particular melancholy one feels when faced with two people in love who, through circumstance, cannot be together. It was a feeling she knew all too well.

Margaret was shaken out of her reverie upon hearing Anna whisper she believed Simcoe to have gone into her room when she wasn’t there. 

“He has,” she interjected. “I saw him, yesterday, through the keyhole in my door. I didn’t have a chance to tell you.”

Abe swore under his breath.

“So if he finds out I’m hiding silver you got from God knows where—”

“Anna it’s not—” Abe abruptly stopped talking as a door on the house creaked open. Margaret slid down the wall of the barn as Abe pulled Anna over to her and down into a crouch, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Look, I had to sell some goods. Caleb Brewster is running a shop out of his whale boat on Devil’s Belt, I had to trade with him.”

Unbidden, a memory floated in Margaret’s mind from a few weeks ago: _**a whiskered chin and bright eyes nearly covered by a wide-brimmed hat peering out from a cover of leaves. She pulled her pistol from her basket only to glance back at the tree and see nothing**_.

Quickly dismissing the thought as her imagination, Margaret’s face matched Anna’s as disbelieving smiles grew on their faces.

“Caleb?”

“You _saw_ Caleb?”

“How was he?”

The two women stumbled over each other’s words, inquiring after their long absent, peculiar friend. Abe held up a placating hand to pause their interrogation, though it held little threat when in direct contrast with the grin on his face. 

“He’s the same as ever. He’s unshaven,” Abe gestured to his face. “He’s insane.”

The trio shared a quiet laugh as they were engulfed with memories of days long gone, sweeping over each of them like waves on the shoreline where they whiled away their childhoods. 

Memories of games, pranks gone wrong, and endless summers. Of harvest festivals filled with laughter and far too much ale, of pushing each other into the Sound when the spring thaw was not yet over. 

Memories of enchanting, pure first snowfalls and shy, stumbling first kisses. 

Memories of water for swimming and trees for climbing and all measures of delights one could find on God’s green earth – all in Setauket, the only place on earth that truly mattered then. 

Memories of home. 

The home that was gone, even though they had not left. The home that was taken from them.

Abe was the first to sober, running a hand over his lips as he seemed to struggle with what he was about to say. He nervously looked at Margaret, reaching out and hesitantly taking one of her hands. Margaret accepted his touch, Anna’s smile fading along with hers, both unable to predict what he would say next. 

Although much of their group of childhood friends had already begun to grow apart years before with departures for the next step in life, a rift had occurred between Margaret and Abraham after his permanent return to Setauket and ensuing marriage. Margaret’s devotion to Anna was unwavering, and she was not nearly so willing to understand and forgive as the slighted woman herself. The falling-out only grew larger as the divide between Tory and patriot escalated and Abe was unable to devote himself fully to either side. He was now a distant brother to Margaret, and she an estranged sister to him, but time and circumstance could not dispel a lifetime of memories, nor the affection that remained. 

Abraham glanced between Anna and Margaret before settling his eyes on the latter. “I also...uh, I also saw Ben Tallmadge.”

If Margaret thought her heart had tightened earlier, at this admission it must have completely ceased to beat. 

When she found her breath again, she realized Anna had slipped an arm around her shoulders and both she and Abe were focused on her with worried eyes. Her free hand unconsciously went to the cord around her neck, pulling the pendant from her jacket to rest in her hand. Margaret gripped Abe’s hand tightly as unbidden tears pricked her eyes. 

She cleared her throat, “Ben? You saw him?” she choked out.

“Ben and Caleb were together?” Anna interjected, delighted at the idea.

“No, no,” Abraham answered Anna.

Margaret leaned forward, desperate for any information Abe could give her. She knew precious little of what Ben’s life had consisted of since she had last heard from him in June in the form of a letter, informing her of his purchasing a commission in the Continental army and inability to return to Setauket.

She hadn’t even known if he was alive.

_**‘…though you know, you must know my heart will remain there, where it belongs. Home. With you.’** _

“Ben is, uh...he’s a Connecticut Dragoon now.”

“A dragoon? He's in the cavalry?” Margaret breathed, a fond smile forming. _He always did love horses_. 

“Got a shiny helmet and all,” Abe grinned.

Anna rubbed comforting circles across Margaret’s shoulders, beaming with pride for their sweet, brave Ben, fighting for a chance at the dream that had already cost them dearly.

“And he’s...he’s all right?” Margaret fretted. “He’s well?”

Abe nodded. “He seemed to be, yeah. Looked healthy. Still the handsomest bastard I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he teased.

Margaret huffed out a laugh, the tears she had kept at bay finally breaking forth, spilling down her cheeks. She could practically see him standing before her; he surely must cut a handsome figure in his cavalry uniform with his height, strong features, and breathtakingly blue eyes. _Oh, Ben._ Her heart _ached_ with a keen longing she had not felt this sharply in months.

“Oh God. I’m...I’m sorry, I just—” she half-sobbed, clutching her pendant tightly.

Anna pressed her lips to Margaret’s temple as Abe cupped her face, swiping his thumb across her damp cheek.

“No, no, it’s all right, Meg,” he murmured. “He’s alive, he’s safe.”

An unspoken ‘ _for now’_ hung over their heads like a traitor’s noose.

The cold, phantom hands that had protectively clutched Margaret’s heart the moment she read Ben’s final letter stretched and loosened at Abe’s admission. 

_He's alive, he’s safe_. 

She had taken her pain and buried it deep, far below where any Tory would be able to find it; if they knew she anguished out of concern and fear, not betrayal, they would use it against her. And then she did it again when her brother forced her hand.

 _He’s alive, he’s safe_. 

It felt as though the first crocus of spring had taken root in her chest and sprouted through the snow, opening to the sun. 

_He's alive, he’s safe_. 

_For now._

Margaret took deep breaths as her tears slowed — the ache in her heart a sweet reminder that it still felt at all. 

“He seems to be of great import, as well,” Abe added as she calmed. “He tried to recruit me for a secret mission.”

The two women gawked at him, “Against the British?” Anna clarified, her voice climbing in pitch.

“Don't worry, I won’t do it.”

“ _What?_ ” both women frowned at him, the atmosphere of the barn rapidly shifting from bittersweet to disapproving. 

The farmer opened and closed his mouth several times, at a loss. Margaret abruptly stood, wrenching herself away from them both. 

“Even with everything Ben is doing, is risking,” she hissed down at Abe, blue eyes bright and no longer sparkling from tears, “even with what Austin risked, what _I’m_ ri—” she cut herself off, angrily scrubbing her face clean of her overwrought emotions. “You’ve changed more than I could ever bring myself to believe,” she finished scathingly. 

With that, she peered out of the barn and strode back to the house, snatching up her forgotten mending and slamming the door behind her. 

She leaned her back against the door and let out a soul-deep sigh, praying Anna would cover her blunder.

* * *

“What did she stop herself from saying? Anna, do you know? What has she gotten herself into?” Abe pressed after a brief moment of uncomfortable silence covered the barn following the departure of the tempest of a woman, alarm fresh on his face once again.

Anna leveled a glare at him, considering. She’d be betraying Margaret’s trust if she told him what she knew. “You trusted us not to reveal where you really were, who you were with. Now it’ll be up to you to do the same.”

Abe looked at her in confusion. “Yeah, of course, I wouldn’t say anything. To anyone.”

Anna pursed her lips, realizing Abe was the only person she’d ever trust with the information Margaret surely didn’t want her to impart. Anna, however, desperately needed to share her burden of knowledge with someone else, removing part of the weight of fear and anxiety that had hung about her neck for near three months.

“She hasn’t told me everything, just enough so I wouldn’t worry when I saw her meeting with Selah behind the tavern,” she murmured. She rolled her eyes. “She should’ve known all she’s done is worry me more.”

“Anna,” Abe prompted, brow furrowed.

She sighed. “Look, for a little while now she’s been...assisting the rebels.”

“ _What?_ How?”

“Quiet!” Anna shushed him as his volume rose in incredulity. “In the spring she started traveling to Smithtown for her laundry business.” She paused; word of anything and everything spread rapidly through the small town, but she was unsure how much Abe had heard of Margaret’s situation. At his nod, she continued. “She told me she occasionally meets with...someone at the shore near there. A smuggler,” she hissed. “She takes whatever she can get her hands on – shirts she’s sewn, fabric for bandages, small amounts of gunpowder, food and ale. She said she needed help collecting more without anyone asking questions, so she went to Selah, knowing he could afford it and would be...discreet.”

Abraham wearily rubbed his hands over his face, pressing his fingers over his eyes before peering up at Anna. “You and Selah knew? You and Selah _helped_? I don’t…is this a joke? Please for God’s sake, is this...Margaret smuggles for the rebels, Jesus _Christ_.”

“Abraham!”

A thought seemed to strike him. “Is it Caleb?” he gripped one of her hands. “Anna, has she been meeting _Caleb_?”

She shook her head, knowing Margaret would have told her a piece of information such as that. “No. No, I don't think so. She’s never told me a name, but you saw the way she reacted when you said you saw him.”

“I don’t know whether that makes me relieved or not.” Abraham sighed. “She’s been putting herself in danger all these months, and Austin never stopped her.”

Anna abruptly remembered exactly why Margaret stormed out and she fixed Abraham with a sharp look. “She’s in the right, you know. Everything she’s gone through, everything she does, risks, as well as Ben, Selah, and... and myself now, I suppose. What Austin gave his _life_ for. All for the cause we all believe in, have _always_ believed in, you included, whether you remember that or not.” 

Her relationship with Abraham was by necessity not what it once was, and never would be again, but Anna knew him. God, she knew him in a way she knew no one else but Margaret, and this wasn’t him. He had always been full of spirit and conviction, the hesitant man in front of her was not who she had fallen in love with all those years ago. She stood and scowled down at him. “What are you waiting for? What more do they need to take from us?” 

Even as he called out to her, Anna turned around and left Abe standing alone in the barn.

* * *

Margaret allowed her thoughts to wander to Connecticut as her hands took on the mindless work of rinsing and drying an endless scourge of tankards behind the counter of the tavern. She was quickly finding she vastly preferred the solitude her usual laundering provided her over the ceaseless ruckus of the tavern, despite the far more physically grueling labor of the former.

She was startled from her musings to see Anna dazedly stumbling through the tavern behind a far too pleased looking Simcoe.

 _Dear God_.

Heart in her throat, Margaret rushed around the counter only to skid to a halt and nearly collide with the vile captain and his cargo of an ale barrel.

“Miss… _Roe_ , is it?” he looked down at her with recognition. “Shall I place this behind the counter for you?”

Margaret swallowed her vitriol as she craned her neck to meet cold, mocking eyes. He knew exactly who she was, of that she had no doubt. “Thank you, but I’ll take it,” she grit out as she reached for the barrel.

Simcoe pulled back slightly. “It’s no trouble,” he said quietly, soft as a spindle. “I carried this from the cellar for Mrs. Strong, it’s far too heavy for a lady.”

“Well, I am not a true lady, and Mrs. Strong is not a laundress by trade, so I shall see if I can manage,” Margaret smiled snidely as she tugged the cask from his arms and wound her way back through the doorway to the counter to place the sought-after beverage near the stack of empty tankards. Truthfully, it _was_ heavy, but a small barrel of ale was no comparison to the sizeable pot for boiling laundry she routinely lifted and carried.

She also happened to know that despite not being a regular laundress, Anna was certainly capable of carrying such a barrel up from the cellar alone.

As she tapped into the barrel the way Anna taught her, her gaze landed on the woman in question approaching the counter. Margaret shot her an inquisitive look, to which Anna replied with a small shake of her head.

“Meg,” Anna said, somewhat loudly, as Margaret filled a pitcher with the fresh ale. “I need your help with something in the storeroom, if you don’t mind.” Anna gave her a pointed look.

“Yes, of course,” Margaret replied in a light tone that belied the churning of her stomach.

Setting the pitcher below the counter, she walked with Anna through the hall to the storeroom, taking in the other woman’s quickened breath and wide eyes. Margaret was scarcely able to shut the door behind them before Anna was yanking her by the elbow across the room and pulling her close.

“Abraham was just here, in the cellar.”

“What? Why?” Margaret frowned at her, matching her hushed tone.

“He changed his mind. He has information,” Anna hissed, her eyes darting between Margaret’s face and the closed door.

“Truly?” Margaret gasped. “He’s going to help the cause?”

Anna hesitated only a heartbeat. “Yes.”

Margaret let it go. “What information did he find?”

“I don’t know,” Anna shook her head. “Simcoe followed me before he could tell me anything but what I was to do.”

Margaret’s eyes widened. “Yes, I saw him, did he try…” she trailed off as she clutched Anna’s arms.

“No. No, I was able to get him to leave before he saw Abe. Or before he…did anything else.”

“Wait, ‘what you were to do,’ you’re supposed to help?” Margaret gaped at her.

“Yes. I—”

“How?”

“Connecticut.”

Margaret’s breath caught in her throat. _Connecticut_. Her unattainable dream.

“My estate must be able to be seen from across the Sound with a spyglass, Ben has a whole plan around it.”

Margaret forced herself to focus on Anna’s words.

“When I hang a black petticoat on the line, he’ll know to send someone to meet with Abe in one of the coves and get the information.”

“Right…” Margaret suddenly understood Anna’s dazed state as she felt a similar feeling wash over her. After wanting for so long to hurt the British in a way far better than a few baskets of goods sent across the Belt, it was almost surreal to have a tangible course of action in front of them. “Right. What can I do?”

Anna opened and closed her mouth, seemingly at a loss. “I…”

Margaret’s throat tightened. “There…there isn’t anything for me to do, is there? There was no mention of me.”

_Of course there wasn’t._

Anna gave her a sympathetic look. “Margaret—"

“No,” Margaret shook her head with a small forced smile. She didn’t need nor want Anna’s pity. “I understand. There’s no place for me.”

Both women whipped their heads to the door as a loud crash reverberated from the main room, followed by several vulgar phrases.

Margaret sighed. “We should go before someone comes looking for us.”

* * *

Later that night, Margaret sat curled up on her bed in her shift, blankly watching the candle on her side table as her mind whirled.

Abe saw Caleb. Abe saw Ben. Ben wants Abe to spy for him. Abe decided to keep his back turned to his principles, his friends. Abe inexplicably changed his mind and now he wants Anna to signal Ben. 

Ben wants _Abe_ to spy for him. Ben wants _Abe_ and _Anna_ to work _together_ to spy for him. 

Ben _doesn’t_ want Margaret to spy for him. Ben doesn’t want _Margaret_ …

She sighed, scrubbing her hands down her face. _How long can this go on?_

Not for the first time since returning to the house that night, Margaret wished she had brought Ben’s letter from her house; she hadn’t dared bring a message confessing to a commission in the Continental Army into a house full of redcoats, no matter how well it might be hidden. Instead, it — and a large stack of correspondence dating back years, back to Ben first leaving for Yale — remained safely tucked under a loose floorboard in her parent’s house. Along with the scores of letters were a wooden horse toy from Austin’s youth he had kept his whole life, her mother’s well-worn bible, her father’s eyeglasses, and the original patriot pamphlets she had made copies of during Austin’s crusade — any and all of which would be unacceptable or downright dangerous to be discovered by a bloody-back. Every window and shutter latched tightly and both doors locked, Margaret doubted anyone in the town would try to occupy the small, barren house on the edge of town, but with so many soldiers milling about, she had decided she would visit at least once a week to check.

Closing her eyes, Margaret focused on the feeling of her hands resting palm up on her legs, imagining she held the familiar letter. 

She could run her fingertips along the flattened lines of the folds, worn from use. 

She could feel the texture of the fateful paper that was brought to her by special courier, a herald of yet another crevasse opening under her feet, threatening to swallow her whole. 

She could see the fine, looping penmanship, the careful lettering of a scholar. 

The end signed with nothing more than “B.T.” 

The charred corner from a particularly heartbroken night when she tossed it towards the hearth, vowing to burn the letter and be done with it, only to scorch her hands snatching it away from the fire before more serious damage could be done. 

She recounted the text in her memory, the words engraved in her mind:

_“June 21, 1776_

_My Dearest Margaret,_

_I would open this letter by saying that I miss you, as I have for far too long now, but I fear even with my years of study I would never find myself able to appropriately capture my despair at our continued separation, nor my boundless desire to feel your arms about me, and mine about you. Far too much of our lives, as they’ve been intertwined, have been spent on paper, seeking comfort in a familiar script that cannot replace a soft touch, or a laugh, or a smile. As much as I ache to hold you with no knowledge in my mind of an eventual parting, I also want nothing more than to share a meal and our thoughts on scripture, or the classics, or to simply sit in silence, partaking in each other’s presence and looking out over the water._

_I long for you dearly, my sweet Meg; every moment, every breath we are apart I feel an ache in my heart when I remember I cannot be near you, one that does not subside nor disappear no matter my thoughts or actions; an ache I fear will not ebb until you are safely enfolded in my arms once again._

_I shudder at the thought of a day when I can no longer recall with clarity the sound of your voice. The way your eyes light up and your mouth curves into a sharp smile when you have thought of a particularly witty or biting turn of phrase, especially ones that cause me to stumble over my words like a fool. The endearing way you will read aloud from the classics or a tome of philosophy with ease, but grow hesitant in conversation around those you are unfamiliar with. Your laugh. Your laugh and your smile when I have said or done something to cause either are memories that remain buried deep in my heart, and which warm me even when little else can. I am lost if I allow myself to believe I will never again create new memories with you. I would take your laughter and smiles, your thoughts, your arms, and your warmth; I would take your tears, your anger, your snide remarks and even your scorn if only it meant I was near you._

_I would gladly fill pages with my affection and esteem for you, but I find myself unable to conceal the true purpose of this note any longer. If I am unable to find the words for my love for you, I surely cannot express the true pain this letter has caused me, which has only increased upon the realization of what shall be inflicted upon you. You, who have suffered more these past years than I have in my lifetime. I have no right to injure you further, and in doing so, I fear I will lose you forevermore. However, there are beliefs we and our families have staunchly upheld for far longer than this war has gone on — if I were to betray them now, I would be unable to live with myself. I have long grappled with this decision of which path to take, but have recently come to the realization that to continue to do nothing is, in itself, a decision._

_I have purchased a commission—”_

Margaret buried her face in her empty hands, a sob wrenching itself from her throat. 

_I miss you_. 

_I hate you._

_You bastard._

_I miss you._

_I love..._

A letter asking for no response, pledging of no further correspondence on the sender’s part for her safety — a promise upheld, even as her life as she knew it was viciously wrenched apart, and she was left alone. The weeks she survived in a small house that was far too large and far too empty for one person were often spent despairing over the knowledge that news of what happened in Setauket had to have reached him in some form. Margaret couldn’t fathom why he wouldn’t have sent for her, asking her to join him wherever he was stationed, or why he couldn’t even be bothered to risk a missive expressing his condolences or explaining himself. It didn’t make sense — it wasn’t like Ben.

It wasn’t like _her_ Ben.

For a time, she had been terrified his silence meant his death. Now that she knew otherwise… _Perhaps he simply didn’t want to reach out. He thinks so little of you now he saw his life in the army as an escape._

She shook her head against the malicious thoughts. _No. He would **never**. _

_God, I miss you._

She allowed tears to fall for the second time that day, so very weary of feeling nothing that she longed for release. 

Blowing out her candle before resting her head on a pillow, she curled into herself, pulling her treasured pendant out from her shift. A small silver cross rested in her hand, a bit longer than her thumb. An ornament that had belonged to Ben before he bestowed it upon her as a birthday gift, it was a simple thing: no fine jewels or scrollwork, but the cross of a reverend’s son. The cross of a schoolteacher. 

It was more precious to her than anything else she would ever own. 

The only change Ben had made to it was to have an inscription added to the back, “ _Deut. 31:8_ ,” a favorite verse of Margaret’s. Gliding her thumb along the lettering, she murmured the comforting words to herself as her eyelids grew heavy. 

“And the Lord, he it is that doth go before thee; he will be with thee, he will not fail thee, neither forsake thee: fear not, neither be dismayed.” 

For the first time in four months, Margaret slept soundly, dreaming of warm blue eyes, large, gentle hands, and the kindest, most brilliant smile she knew. She didn’t release her cross until she woke the next morning.

_He’s alive, he’s safe._

_For now._

* * *

_November 1st, 1776_

“And I will do my utmost endeavor and make known to His Majesty and his successors all treasons and traitorous conspiracies…” 

Margaret hadn’t found herself able to stomach listening to Abe’s false oath, a terrible reminder of the stakes they faced, and what retribution she and the most precious people in the world to her would face in the event of discovery.

_**One bench to hold shaking legs. Five nooses thrown over hastily erected gallows. Five names called out. Five lives stolen.** _

_**No justice. No mercy.** _

_**A lynching.** _

As he neared the end, she joined Anna in the tavern’s doorway, contemplating the bleak scene before them.

“D’you suppose he did it then?” Margaret murmured under her breath, referring to the meeting with Ben’s courier. “He went?” 

“Yes,” Anna breathed back. 

Margaret sought Anna’s hand resting at her side; she gripped it tightly, anchoring herself as her mind and heart competed for which could race the fastest. Shouts of “ _God save the King!_ ” echoed through the gathered crowd, townsfolk and redcoat alike. 

_This changes everything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I looked up mid/late 18th century maps of the New York area to find the town on Long Island that was closest to Setauket on the way to NYC, and it was Smithtown, so that's historically accurate. (Sidenote: old maps are so cool, and if anyone knows where I can buy some inexpensive prints, absolutely hit me up!!)  
> Yearning tag coming into play early on. So much yearning.  
> I decided to include date/place markers at the beginnings of chapters, whenever there’s a significant location change (which hasn’t happened yet), and whenever there’s a time jump of more than a day. Let me know if it’s too much/not enough! I find that the timelines on the show get ridiculously confusing when they don’t include date markers and are hard to figure out because they’re so historically inaccurate, so I’m trying to alleviate some of that.  
> I forgot to include this in the prologue notes — you can find me on tumblr @ginfueledmusings ! It’s a bizarre collection of whatever I like, but I post story updates, chapter sneak peeks, and hopefully soon some fun edits.  
> As always, please leave comments, I appreciate them so much, and feel free to send me asks/messages on tumblr about the fic or anything at all! Talk to me about your day if you like, I’ll always respond.  
> — Gin


	3. Chapter Two: Mind Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaret becomes reckless in her desperation for a purpose and is given a mysterious warning. A cryptic stranger comes to Setauket. Abe decides the risk matters more than the reward. Ben learns consequences have a much further and more dangerous reach than actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Grief held back from the lips wears at the heart” Adrienne Rich, Collected Early Poems
> 
> "Experience: the most brutal of teachers. But you learn, my God do you learn." William Nicholson
> 
> “Terrible things happen to your family and you weep. You sit alone in a darkened room, mourning their fates. You’ve been a bystander to tragedy [...]. Stop being a bystander. Do you hear me? Stop running.” David Benioff/D.B. Weiss, Game of Thrones (The Wars to Come)

_Chapter Two_

Mind Games

_November 5th, 1776_

_Setauket, Long Island_

“You know, Meg, I do believe this is the first time I've seen you practice caution.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Anna snickered as she and Margaret ascended the stairs to the second story of Strong Manor, heavy baskets in hand for the pretense of returning laundry to the soldiers billeted in the many rooms — in truth, Anna would be rifling through the late Captain Joyce’s belongings to look for clues while Margaret stood watch for any redcoats who might find themselves wandering about. 

“You know, Anna, considering the only reason I’m “practicing caution” is so you won’t be caught ransacking the room of a man you’re under suspicion of having murdered, I wouldn’t be so quick to tease if I were you,” Margaret hissed as they dropped their baskets in the hall outside Joyce’s former room. 

Anna rolled her eyes. “I’m hardly planning on “ransacking” it. I’ll be quick and thorough, I promise,” she retorted, quietly shutting the door behind her.

Margaret crouched next to the baskets, keeping a careful eye and ear out for anyone who happened to be coming up or down the stairs and ready to knock twice on the door if Anna needed to make a swift exit, as they had discussed when Anna informed Margaret of Abe’s news, and their plan to get to the bottom of it all. Margaret unfortunately hadn’t been terribly surprised at Judge Woodhull’s disgusting attempt to pin the murder on Anna, the man surely saw it as his justice against the entire Smith family for daring to love and welcome his son, whose ideologies had eventually led to him vastly preferring the Smiths’ company to that of his own family.

She shook her head with a sigh and began sorting and folding the baskets’ contents, first reaching into the top of her basket to tie her apron over her new (to her) burgundy petticoat that complimented her blue jacket splendidly. Upon discovering Margaret’s meagre wardrobe, Anna had taken upon herself a mission of fashion by giving her friend pieces of her own wardrobe, with plans to purchase fabric to make new clothes whenever the two might have a moment of time. Margaret had quickly turned the hems up on the two gifted petticoats, as Anna was taller than her by just enough to make them a hazardous length. 

Her hands occupied by the mindless work, Margaret allowed her thoughts to wander to the hastily composed plans she had concocted for the evening. The previous night at the tavern, a spark lit in her mind when she overheard some of the men chattering on excitedly about the events taking place for bonfire night, and from there an impossible, insane, likely extraordinarily dangerous scheme started to form. She still needed to work out some of the details, but was mostly content with what she had come up with. Now all she had to do was keep Anna from finding out.

She had just made it uneventfully through the first basket when she looked up with a start as Anna flung the door open, triumph in her eyes.

“I take it you found something?”

* * *

Margaret hesitated as she and Anna prepared to part ways on the path to town — she to continue to the tavern, and Anna to head into the woods to meet Abraham and show him the letter. 

_Now or never, Margaret_.

She turned to sweep her eyes over the empty path behind her. “Before you go, I wanted to let you know I’ll have to leave the tavern early in the evening, I have a...previous engagement,” she hedged, avoiding Anna’s eyes and nervously tugging one of her mitts further up her arm.

“That shouldn’t be a problem, I’m expecting a somewhat quiet night, but...what are you up to that you’ll be so secretively occupied?” Anna narrowed her eyes in suspicion at the younger woman. 

Margaret shrugged nonchalantly. “Oh, just…” _Think fast_. “Um...” _Faster than that_.

She sighed. Knowing Anna as she did, she would be able to see right through a fib regardless and wouldn’t relent until she got an answer she was satisfied with. 

“Tonight is bonfire night, yes?” Margaret began. “That means most everyone will be gathered in town, especially those with particularly strong Loyalist ties. And if they are in town, that means their houses — and all that is inside — will be...unattended,” she reluctantly let out, slowly raising her eyes.

“I suppose so, but I don’t…” Anna trailed off as her eyebrows shot up her forehead, “You mean to _rob_ them?!”

“Shush!” Margaret glanced around at the still empty road. “And not _rob_ , per se, but...quietly encourage them to assist the cause?” she smiled cheekily.

Anna covered her face with her hands, turning away from Margaret. “Unbelievable. Our town, our neighbors and friends. Our home. This is...insanity!” she shouted, whirling back to face her.

“This is justice!” Margaret returned, her mood immediately tainted by Anna’s short memory. “They’ve chosen to throw their lot in with those trying to keep our _town_ , our _home_ from us! Never mind that they ceased to be my “neighbors and friends” the day they all chose to watch Hewlett hang my brother and didn’t do a _damn_ thing to try and stop it,” Margaret snarled. 

Silence followed, interrupted only by the heavy breaths forced out of Margaret’s chest and the lingering sound of distant water.

After a moment, Margaret looked up. Registering Anna’s aghast, guilty expression, she huffed out a sigh, forcing herself into a calmer and quieter state. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean you. Besides, I’ll only be paying a visit to those who may not even miss what I take, or could easily afford to replace it. It’s not as if I was planning on stealing their fine silver,” she muttered, “just some clothes, soap, razors, perhaps some food and alcohol.”

Anna nodded slowly, clearly torn on whether to allow Margaret her madness. “Who exactly are you planning on “visiting”?” she asked with a skeptical eyebrow raised.

“Don’t you want deniability?”

“Are you planning on getting caught?”

Margaret pursed her lips, considering. “Hm. The DeJongs, Scudders, and...Woodhull.”

Anna gaped at her. “You’re joking.”

“He can certainly afford it, and Whitehall will be the easiest to get into — it’s the only house I’ve actually been in,” Margaret rationalized, shrugging off Anna’s incredulity.

“Yes, but have you forgotten that it belongs to _Judge_ Woodhull, never mind that _Major_ Hewlett is billeted there! I can’t…” Anna shook her head, “did you think this through at all? What if the houses aren’t empty when you get there? What about the servants still up and about? What if—”

“Anna!” Margaret interrupted, holding up her hands. “I _have_ thought this through, I swear it.” True, she had only come up with the plan the night before, but Anna didn’t need to know that. “I know this could be…hazardous, even more so than my usual activities, that’s why I didn’t want to tell you at first. But I have nicked things here and there before—"

“You’ve _what_?”

“…this will just be on a larger scale,” Margaret ignored Anna’s exclamation. “I’ll be smart, I promise you. If there are too many people, I won’t even try, all right?” She grabbed Anna’s hands. “But don’t you see, if I can get into Whitehall, I may be able to find _information_ that could help as well,” she entreated. 

Anna stared at her for a moment before closing her eyes. “That’s what this is truly about then? You want to get intelligence to Ben?”

Margaret pulled away with a jolt. “No! It’s...well, yes that’s part of it. But not entirely, I do want to get more supplies across the Sound!” she quickly added as Anna gave her a pointed look. “Look, I just want...I want to be _useful_ for once!” she exclaimed, surprised by the tightening of her throat and hot tears gathering behind her eyes at the admission. “Ben doesn’t want my help, he wants you and Abe. I thought maybe if I proved myself, he’d...want me,” she whispered, feeling more foolish than she had in quite a long time. 

“Oh, Meg,” Anna murmured and pulled her into her arms as Margaret’s face crumpled. 

“I’ve just been so...so _helpless_ for so long! I couldn’t nurse my mother or father to health, I couldn’t keep the smithy, I couldn’t stop Ben from enlisting, and I couldn’t...I couldn’t save Austin,” she choked out. “I couldn’t protect any of them.”

Anna rested her cheek against Margaret’s forehead, holding one arm tight around her shoulders and the other under her jaw, her thumb gently stroking a damp cheek as Margaret felt her friend’s tears slide onto her face and mix with her own. They stood in a tight embrace on the path to town in the middle of the afternoon, Margaret basking in the moments of silence to release her emotions in the comfort and safety she had been sorely lacking. 

“I have no purpose, Anna. No place,” Margaret whispered. “Now that I know that’s how Ben sees me as well…” she trailed off, sniffling into Anna's shoulder.

“First of all, Meg,” Anna murmured into her hair, “what happened to your family is _not_ your fault. There was nothing you could have done to prevent any of it. And I’m so sorry for all you’ve endured this past year; no one should have to suffer what you have, and yet you are still here in spite of it. You are the strongest, bravest person I know,” she asserted, pressing a gentle kiss to Margaret’s forehead, ignoring her quiet scoff of disagreement. 

“Secondly, your Benjamin doesn’t want me, he wants my house that faces the water. He didn’t ask me to spy for him, he asked me to be the signal. Finally,” Anna continued, taking Margaret by the shoulders and pushing her away to look her in the eye, “I know you, and I know Ben. He still loves you; I’m more certain of that than I am almost anything else. For years now, most of your relationship has been spent apart — and your betrothal has lasted far longer than either of you intended — yet this spring when last I saw the two of you together, he still looked at you as though you alone caused the sun to rise and set.”

Warmth spread through Margaret’s chest and across her cheeks as a small smile grew beneath her tears.

“I also know he’d rather cut off his own arm than put you in danger, or anyone he loves, if it can be helped,” Anna added, smiling fondly. “There was no other choice than Abe, and he needed a signal. You know I’m right, don’t you? Listen to the wisdom of your elders,” she teased.

“You are but two years older than me, it is not as though you have decades of wisdom that I lack,” Margaret sniffed as she reached into her sleeve, grabbing her handkerchief and blotting her face. She considered all that Anna had said. It’s not that Margaret didn’t believe her, but perhaps that...she didn’t _want_ to believe her. Her pain, her grief had become one of the only constants of her life — she didn’t know how to let that go.

She didn’t know if she wanted to let that go. 

And yet...she wasn’t sure if Anna would quite understand that.

“Yes, you’re right, of course,” Margaret decided a small deception couldn’t hurt. “It’s just...it has been a long year.”

“I know,” Anna empathized. “And it’s not over yet. But at least now we have each other again.”

Margaret gave her a watery smile, “We do.”

“And Meg,” Anna gazed at her apprehensively, “I understand your ire, I swear to you I do, but I beg of you, don’t go through with this tonight. You don’t have the constitution for it right now and you could get yourself in trouble. Or hurt.”

“I know,” Margaret sighed, looking away. Anna forced her to see the danger she had been willfully ignoring. She knew all too well what recklessness such as this led to. _What good am I to anyone if I’m dead?_ “I won’t go. I’ll even work at the tavern tonight so you can keep an eye on me,” she half-heartedly smiled.

“Good,” Anna looked at Margaret in mock-sternness before her face softened and she enveloped her once more into her arms. “I just want you safe, Peggy,” she whispered. “For as long as I can manage.”

Margaret felt a sharp sting in her heart at the old, familiar nickname she hadn’t heard in nearly two months. “I know, Annie. I know.”

The friends allowed themselves a few moments to simply hold one another with no tears between them, then turned their separate ways.

* * *

Margaret stared out a window in the larger room of Strong’s Tavern at the growing bonfire, wishing for…something.

She couldn’t quite touch upon what specifically her soul called out for – whether it was those she had lost, the life she was promised and never had a chance to live, or something else entirely. It was not entirely unusual, this longing for that which she did not have, but the particular melancholy that had descended upon Margaret during her talk with Anna that afternoon proved to be unshakeable.

With the usual tavern occupants braving the sharp night air for an evening of revelry at the late Guy Fawkes’ expense, only stopping in for a quick ale and a warm, she and Anna were in for the rare quiet evening. She couldn’t quite decide if this was a blessing in that she had no unruly patrons to scold, no foul-smelling refuse of questionable origin to clean off the floor, and no wandering hands to slap away, or if this was a curse in that all she had to occupy her night was her own downcast thoughts.

Heaving a sigh, Margaret wiped off the last dirty table with a rag, piled the remaining tankards in her arms and meandered towards the front room, thinking of asking Anna if she was willing to close by herself.

“Anna! If you’re amenable, I’d appreciate—” she halted in her speech and step as she saw Anna not alone at the counter as expected, but slowly seating herself at a table with Judge Woodhull, Abe, and a burly, grizzled man Margaret had never seen before.

Feeling an unknown tension the moment she stepped in the room, Margaret hesitated. “Oh. Please forgive me, I didn’t hear anyone come in. I’ll just...see to these,” she finished awkwardly, lifting her armful of tankards slightly and moving towards the counter to set them down. 

The Judge scarcely glanced her way, giving her a disinterested look, while Abe’s eyes darted to her face and quickly away and Anna gave her a tight, nervous smile. The rugged man inclined his head towards her in recognition, watching her move around the half-door to stand behind the counter. Margaret felt an unease skitter across her shoulders at the man’s almost…invasive gaze. Not in the way of many of the usual patrons, in that it seemed as though he was imagining what she looked like in her shift – well, perhaps partially in that way – but in a way that it felt as though he was trying to discern every lie she had ever told, every secret she ever held. 

Dear God, did she have a lot to hide. 

Margaret made a conscious effort to keep her face in a careful, uninterested expression as she began rinsing the tankards in a large bucket and wiping them down, discreetly listening as the man spoke to Anna.

“I was just telling these gentlemen what a fine, uncommon town ye have here,” the...Scotsman? continued. 

“Uncommon?” Anna questioned.

 _Uncommon_ would _be the right word for it_ , Margaret thought, mindlessly wiping a tankard. _But this stranger certainly doesn't need to be aware of that._

“Well, for such a tiny hamlet, there’s an unusual amount of smuggling, arson, and murder.”

Margaret dropped the tankard on the floor. 

_Shite. Well done staying composed, you ninny._ Her heart in her throat, she snatched the tankard off the floor, keeping her eyes down and muttering an apology. “I'm afraid the events of the past week have me rather jumpy, please don’t let me disturb you.” 

She could practically feel the stranger’s gaze boring into her again.

“You’re speaking now of Captain Joyce?” Judge Woodhull inquired.

“Aye, he’s part of a riddle I’m trying to solve.”

 _My smuggling. Abe’s smuggling. The petticoat. The ambush. Joyce’s murder. Which riddle?_ In her periphery, Margaret could see a small, meaningful look exchanged between Abe and Anna.

“A captain lay dead in a field,” the Scot started. “One week later, twenty of his men lay dead in Connecticut with no enemy casualties to save their honor. How did this occur?”

 _Jesus Christ._ Margaret forced her hands to continue their steady, repetitive motions to hide their trembling. _The ambush and counter-ambush, then._

_The counter-ambush that occurred thanks to the efforts of Ben, Caleb, and the three people in this room with far too much to hide._

“I suppose the answer to that lies in Connecticut.”

Margaret could have kissed Richard Woodhull right there in the tavern. 

“The old fella brought me here.”

“What old fella?” the judge questioned, hostility remaining in his tone.

“Him,” the stranger gestured to his nose. “Tells me there’s something corrupt in this town. Something concealed.”

 _Dear God._ Margaret felt as though she would be sick.

“I agree.”

Four pairs of eyes turned to Abe Woodhull in surprise. 

_Oh Abraham, what are you getting yourself into now?_

* * *

Abraham’s mind scrambled to keep up with his mouth as he blurted out his deductions in the cellar, desperately trying to find a likely suspect that _wasn’t_ Anna.

“By your count, what count?” Richard demanded.

“Gentlemen—” Rogers warned.

“By my count of those who work and live close enough to hear the company drum,” Abe finished.

“Good, good,” Rogers leaned forward. “Now which of those four would Joyce likely dip his wick into?”

“Well, there’s...Hannah Ketcham, who’s 74,” Abe began, listing the unlikely women first. “Or Loretta Brewster, who’s plagued by palsy. And that leaves only,” Abe snapped his fingers, “Maarten Dejong’s wife, Klara.”

“And Anna Strong,” Richard interjected. 

Abe fought the urge to roll his eyes. _Let it go, already_.

“And what of that jittery young filly upstairs?” Rogers inquired, casting a glance to the ceiling.

Abe swallowed hard. _Wonderful_. “Her, uh…her 0name is Margaret Roe,” he began hesitantly, “but she didn’t start working at the tavern until after Joyce had been killed,” he quickly added.

His intention certainly hadn’t been to take the suspicion off Anna by putting it on Meg.

A wicked light entered Richard’s eyes. “Her parents’ house is on the edge of town, though. It’s possible she could have been able to hear the drums.”

Rogers nodded thoughtfully. “Her parents’ house, ye say? And does she have a lad in town who would be angered by an affair?”

“No,” Abe swiftly answered, hoping to prevent his father from responding further. “Her intended is a schoolteacher in Connecticut.”

“Her _former_ intended,” Richard added with a knowing look.

“You don’t know that,” Abe shot back automatically. He didn’t truly desire to get into an argument with his father about Ben and Meg’s relationship in front of Robert Rogers, but his need to defend his friends overcame his common sense.

“Gentlemen!” Rogers held a hand up, “Explain a bit further, will ye?”

“Miss Roe and her older brother were orphaned earlier this year,” Richard elaborated, far faster than Abe could spin a partial story that would satisfy Rogers’ curiosity without raising his father’s suspicion and still keep Ben’s name out of it. “When the regiment arrived in September, her brother was one of the loudest dissenters and was executed as a traitor, leaving Miss Roe with no family. It’s now been almost two months since his death and her betrothed, Benjamin Tallmadge, has yet to send for her. Most folk suspect he’s jilted her. He’s also no schoolteacher, not anymore,” he added, giving Abe a sharp look. “The entire Tallmadge family have always been vocal in their insurrection, it’s common knowledge that the lad’s joined up with the rebels.”

 _Shite_. 

“Why, Father, I didn’t know you were so well ensconced in Setauket’s gossip circles,” Abe sneered.

“Abraham—”

“But in any case, it wouldn’t make sense — you said it yourself,” Abe pointed out, desperately attempting to turn Rogers’ attention to another suspect. “Her brother was a rebel executed by the British, even if she didn’t share his beliefs, you think she would carry on an affair with a British officer?”

“Joyce had no direct connection to his death,” Richard argued. “And it’s no secret she’s been desperate for money for some time now, selling most everything her family owned to folk around town. It would’ve been entirely possible for her to have had an...understanding with Captain Joyce and the letter was merely lies to cover their meeting arrangements. She may have started working at the tavern after his death to make up the funds.”

Rogers raised his eyebrows in consideration of Richard’s theory.

“Father!” Abraham hissed, incensed by his father’s baseless, casual accusations thrown at a childhood friend. “Listen to yourself, none of this adds up! You know her, you knew her family. She would sooner die than allow a British officer to touch her,” Abe glared at him. 

“She would sooner die, eh,” Rogers mused. “Would she sooner kill?”

* * *

Margaret wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders to ward off the November chill as she paused by the evening’s activities on the way back to Strong Manor, Anna having acquiesced to her early departure following a hushed, terrified conversation once the trio of men exited to the cellar. 

She stood stoically alone near the ever-growing bonfire, the laughter and chatter weaving around her unable to penetrate her despondency. She was growing used to careful avoidance and sideways glances that followed her everywhere. Though she was hardly in a celebratory mood, Margaret felt mesmerized by the rapid dance of the tall flames licking the sides of the logs, the raucous noise of the crowd quieting to a murmur in the back of her mind. She distantly felt herself begin sway on her feet as her focus narrowed, everything around her disappearing but the fire as a straw facsimile of Guy Fawkes was tossed into the blaze. The flames encroached the edges of her vision as they began to eat at the straw man, twisting, writhing, and transforming in front of her. 

Margaret looked on in horror at the burning body of Abraham, a weeping bullet wound between blank, open eyes. 

She blinked and Caleb lay before her, a grisly incision opened across his throat, his face contorted in a chillingly familiar grin. 

Blink.

Anna, barely recognizable, horrifying burns covering her body, her eyes screwed shut in terror. 

Blink.

Ben, a noose around his neck. _Just like Austin_. Bile rose in her throat at his peaceful, resigned countenance. 

Blink.

She was staring at herself. There were no visible wounds, but tears ran down the body’s face as she clutched at her stomach, mouth open in a silent scream.

Margaret stumbled forward. 

Blink.

The pseudo-Fawkes was staring up at her once more. She closed her eyes to the flames, desperately pressing her palms into them, trying to erase the horrible images from her mind.

_My God._

Taking deep gulps of air, she felt as though she would retch, scream, sob, and collapse all at once.

_What does it mean?_

Feeling a now familiar penetrative gaze sweeping over her, Margaret looked up – carefully avoiding the bonfire – to see the Scotsman standing by Judge Woodhull and Abraham. Glancing around, she noticed several more sets of unfriendly eyes flashing her way, cruel mirth and contempt within. 

She let out a sigh. _They probably think I’m drunk. Exactly what I need._

She stood with her side to the fire for several long moments, taking deep breaths through her nose as her whole body trembled and her hand clutched at the neckline of her jacket, desperate to hold the cross hidden beneath. Forcing herself towards a state of calm, she heard the company drummer begin to play a call. _How odd_. As the drumming ceased, the unfamiliar man stormed off, and a moment later, Abe strolled towards John Robeson. 

Entirely rattled, Margaret shrugged off that small instance of peculiar events, which took place in the midst of an exceedingly peculiar night, and — having regained her composure enough to return home for the evening — found herself desperately yearning for the privacy of her room in which to examine the events that had taken place. Her steps almost painfully slow, shoulders bowing under the weight of the horrific visions she had been assaulted with, she set off in the direction of a warm hearth and soft bed, knowing she would have no semblance of a peaceful night.

* * *

_Connecticut Border_

“Come to! COME TO!” 

Caleb Brewster threw a pailful of water over the bloodied face of Captain Simcoe, causing him to gasp back into consciousness as Benjamin Tallmadge paced restlessly behind them, his polished boots wearing a hole in the floor of the dank cellar.

“I’m not done with you,” Caleb continued, grabbing the front of Simcoe’s blood and sweat-stained shirt, causing him to slide forward on the straw littering the ground and tilt precariously between his toes on the floor and wrists chained to a hook in the ceiling. “Now you can end this. But I hope you don’t.” 

Ben moved into Simcoe’s line of sight, jaw clenched tightly as his mind raced. Interrogation methods such as this were certainly outside protocol for a captured enemy officer, and exceedingly dangerous if they were to get caught. However, every other technique and trick he knew had proved fruitless since he and Caleb brought the damnable officer there from the site of the ambush. And if these methods were able to get the results Ben was risking everything for... 

“It must be its own torture to live like you do,” Simcoe quietly taunted with wild eyes, shoving his face closer to Caleb’s. “On the run.” 

Caleb glanced over to Ben, only for a heartbeat, but Ben could see the worry in his eyes. Simcoe wasn’t breaking. 

“So close to your home and yet unable to set foot in it.” Simcoe finally broke eye contact with Caleb to peer at Ben. “So close to the people you love.” 

The redcoat looked down at Caleb again as he towered over him. “So many enchanting families in as small a town as Setauket, it really is quite extraordinary. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting any of the other Brewsters. Pity. Such lovely people,” he sneered. 

Ben put a hand on Caleb’s shoulder in warning. _Don’t give him the satisfaction of a response_. 

The redcoat noticed Ben’s hand and cocked an eyebrow, raising his pale eyes to meet Ben’s deep blue ones before continuing his bating. “Then there’s the Reverend Tallmadge, of course. His church is now our garrison. And stables.” 

Ben grit his teeth but otherwise remained impassive. He was determined to give the bastard no reaction, but the thought of his father’s church being desecrated in such a way horrified him. It was a second home to him, the place he had always been able to go for comfort and peace. Where he, his brother, and his friends had all been baptized. Where he had first heard and learned the word of God. Where he should have married…

He forced himself back to the present. It wouldn’t do to lose himself in a situation such as this.

Simcoe’s eyes stayed on him as he continued his goading. Ben knew Caleb was no longer the target. All Simcoe wanted now was to provoke a reaction from him. “There’s also the Strongs…” Ben forced himself to continue taking steadying breaths through his nose as Simcoe probed further, searching for the one name that would break him. “The Dejongs...the Woodhulls...Miss Roe—” 

Ben’s stomach dropped to the floor. Simcoe’s eyes widened. 

_Dear God, no_. He had stayed composed, there’s no way Simcoe could know… 

“Oh, Captain. There it is, right there in those clear, blue eyes.” Simcoe offered a crimson stained smile to Ben, far more genially than the situation called for. “What does she mean to you?” he inquired, a sharpness wrapping around his words as he intensely studied Ben’s face, looking for the answer he sought. Ben remained stone-faced, cursing whatever small lapse Simcoe caught. “Miss Roe has rather lovely blue eyes as well, come to think of it,” the redcoat continued. “She’s now living at the Strong estate you know, where I’m billeted...or were you unaware?” He shook his head. “An unmarried woman in a house full of soldiers…” he tsked softly in mock concern. 

_Why on earth is she at Strong Manor? Why isn’t she home with Austin?_ Ben felt his brow furrow traitorously as Caleb shifted next to him. Despite his best efforts, his body rebelled at the mere thought of a bastard like Simcoe approaching his Margaret. 

Ben blinked. _He must be lying, trying to get at me,_ he told himself.

 _...and if he’s not?_ his mind treacherously whispered back.

“It truly is a pity you’re all alone here, and she’s all alone there,” Simcoe frowned.

Ben felt his heart accelerate.

“She really is such a high-spirited, independent woman, she needs a strong man in her life to put a bridle on her,” the redcoat smirked as Ben felt his face lose all pretense of calm and he glowered at the taller man. “Take her over his knee, as it w—” 

Whatever Simcoe was going to say next was lost as Ben landed a right hook in his bloodied face. 

Caleb simultaneously yanked out his pistol and cocked it, “I think we’re done here, Ben.” 

As he stepped back and shook his hand out to loosen the pain, Ben looked at Simcoe in disgust, registering the distant sound of horses arriving. 

_Don’t let them come down here_ , he prayed, feeling sick. _Not until I can finish what I started_. 

As Simcoe spat a mouthful of blood on the discolored straw, Caleb aimed his pistol at his contemptible face but was unable to pull the trigger before Ben grabbed the barrel and pushed it down. 

“No. I’ll do it.” 

A chance for him to uphold Caleb’s promise to Abe and keep Margaret safe in one stroke. He had ended up drawing the both of them and Anna from their relatively safe lives into the bloody war and he’d be damned if he let Simcoe walk away with his life.

Through the hours of interrogation, Ben had justified his actions as feeling duty-bound to find as much intelligence as possible. There was a part of him, however, — a small, shameful part he kept buried deep within — that knew he had done this for himself, to prove himself and his strategy for intelligence. 

It was a realization that came far, far too late.

_God, what was I thinking?_

Ben rushed to his sabre as voices echoed angrily from upstairs — he had to do this now, before it was too late. 

_The world will be no worse for the loss of a man such as Simcoe_ , the reverend’s son in him rationalized.

He drew his sabre from its scabbard hanging on the wall, the sound ringing through the cellar as Simcoe spoke yet again —this time garbled through a mouthful of blood. 

“It’s a shame what happened to her brother.”

Ben glanced sharply to Caleb, finding a similarly troubled look on his face. Ben strode forward, placing the deadly edge of his blade to the bloody-back’s throat.

“What are you talking about?” he hissed. 

Simcoe raised his eyebrows at Ben’s ignorance, letting out a quiet chuckle as the cellar door was yanked open and none other than General Scott rapidly descended the steps, gaping at the sight he saw. Simcoe’s final, desperate move to stall for time had worked. Ben froze, stomach churning. 

_Shite_.

Ben’s mind raced as Scott reprimanded him and Simcoe was let down from his chains. He offered ignored justifications even as he was threatened with a court-martial upon their return to Fort Lee. He realized it was probably for the best the volunteered explanations were swept aside, as Ben had no notion of what he would have said — there simply was no account of these events that would have placated Scott, not when he was out for blood such as he was. 

Ben rubbed a hand over his lips. _What will this mean for Simcoe? He’ll likely eventually be traded back to the British, how long will it take? What about our intelligence? Abe, Anna, Setauket?_

_Margaret?_

His Meg was tenacious, she always had been, but now that Simcoe had a hint of her connection to Ben… If he did make it back to Setauket, it would be all too easy for him to ask a few questions to the right people and learn the history of their relationship – at least, what was known around town. A man such as he would surely have no qualms about threatening or even harming an innocent woman in vengeance against her lover.

Margaret was in danger. 

Because of Ben.

_Caleb will have to warn her. I’ll write a note, explaining...what? Explaining that it’s all because of me? That I couldn’t even keep my word to a friend and now she’s in jeopardy because of my ambition?_

Ben came back to himself as Simcoe entreated Scott for a gentle reprimand for the cavalryman. 

“...he’s been a perfect gentleman.” 

_And **what** happened to Austin?_

He surely wouldn’t find out from Simcoe. As Ben strode towards the steps, the redcoat’s hushed, high voice stopped him in his tracks. 

“Fear not, Captain. I’ll be sure to extend the same courteous treatment to Miss Roe upon my eventual return to Setauket.”

Ben’s heart pounded in his chest, his blood turning colder than Simcoe’s eyes.

 _This is all my fault_.

* * *

As she hurried through a stretch of the woods surrounding Setauket, a stitch in her side decisively making itself known, Margaret regretted telling Anna she would be following directly. 

An entirely sleepless night haunted by horrifying scenes had concluded with a lethargic morning, and two steaming cups of coffee later she was still getting dressed. When Anna entered her room to say Abe had put out their signal to meet, Margaret told her to go on ahead in case he was waiting and she would meet them both there. When she finally approached their decided upon place, she saw Anna and Abe snap their heads in her direction and quickly step apart, dropping each other’s hands. 

Margaret smiled sadly at the two, her brow furrowing at the expression on Abe’s face. “I’m sorry it took me so long...what’s wrong?” 

Abe hesitated, running a hand over his face.

“I’ll relay later what he’s told me,” Anna quickly said to Margaret before turning back to the would-be spy, “but Abraham...what about a signal? What are you saying?” she prodded.

He glanced at Margaret, then Anna. “I don’t want you hanging petticoats for Caleb Brewster anymore.”

Margaret reared back. “Caleb? _Caleb_ is Ben’s courier?”

_**Caleb, a grisly incision opened across his throat, his face contorted in a chillingly familiar grin...** _

Abraham nodded distractedly as Anna sighed. “He told me yesterday — I meant to tell you; I just didn’t have the chance.”

Margaret pursed her lips. “What do you mean you don’t want her hanging petticoats?”

Abe was becoming visibly frustrated with the conversation as he ran a hand over his lips, his feet shuffling in the leaves as if they longed to pace.

“Abraham, don't be hasty,” Anna chided, laying a hand on his arm. “Look what we’ve accomplished.”

Abraham shook his head vehemently as he looked between the two of them. Margaret’s heart sank, dreading whatever blow he was about to deal.

“Captain Simcoe’s body was not found in Connecticut.”

Though she saw no reaction from Anna at first, Margaret knew her heart must be pounding as much as her own was. It couldn’t be possible.

“Getting rid of him was—” Abe stopped himself, glancing guiltily at Margaret before continuing. “It was the sole reason I risked talking to Caleb, and now he may still be alive?” 

“ _What?_ ” Margaret murmured, quietly enough Abe seemed not to hear her. Abe stopped the ambush only to rid themselves of Simcoe? What else did Anna forget to tell her?

“We have accomplished _nothing_ ,” Abe spat. He gazed at Anna, “And I won’t risk you further.” He turned to go, brushing past Margaret.

“ _Nothing?!_ ” Margaret cried, grabbing Abraham’s arm and wheeling him around. “You call preventing an ambush on a patriot safehouse ‘nothing?’ Why, because it may not have directly benefited you?” 

Abe sighed, looking away and placing his hands on his hips. 

“Margaret,” Anna warned. 

“No!” Margaret couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She jabbed a finger into Abe’s chest. “Some of us don’t get to choose when we care about this fight. It is _driven_ into us by a letter, or a knife, or a musket ball, or…” her voice hitched, “or a rope. What if you hadn’t said anything and Caleb had been in that safehouse? If _Ben_ —” her voice broke. “How _dare_ you say it’s nothing.”

“I didn’t choose my life either!” Abe finally snapped. “My choice was _driven_ into me as well, you aren’t the only one who’s lost a brother,” he spat at her. “You aren’t the only one who lost _everything_.”

Margaret saw him glance to Anna for only a heartbeat before looking back at her. She grit her teeth against pricking tears. She knew his criticism was fair, but there was still a part of her that wanted to scream back, _you may have lost your brother, but you did choose your life._

_Mine was **taken** from me._

But Abraham knew that already. 

She could see the regret on his face as she stonily stared at him, offering no response as a lone tear escaped. 

“Meg, I…” Abe started quietly, then sighed. “Look, it’s too dangerous for any of us to meet,” he said, resigned, not meeting Margaret’s eyes. He gazed longingly, lovingly, mournfully at Anna for the briefest of moments. “Or even see each other.”

He turned around and walked away without looking back.

Margaret twisted around to look back at Anna, heartsick at the tears gathering in her friend’s eyes. Turning back to watch Abe’s retreating form, Margaret recited a familiar litany in her head. 

_Breathe in_. _Breathe out_. 

_Decide_.

Striding to Anna, Margaret lifted her chin defiantly. “And what do you want?” 

“What?”

They were both women grown who had faced their fair share of difficulty. They both had been discarded and abandoned by the men who meant the most to them, and Margaret refused to allow those same men to make their decisions for them. She placed a hand on Anna’s wrist. “You. Not Abe, you. If there was information to get to Ben, would you hang a petticoat?”

Anna blinked at Margaret’s renewed conviction. “I— yes. I would,” she spoke without hesitation, setting her jaw.

Margaret nodded slowly, mind awhirl with possibility. “Good. I…I don’t know how soon — we’ll have to work on a plan — but there will be information. _I’ll_ tell you when to hang a petticoat.”

“What?” Anna was aghast. “Meg, you can’t be serious.”

Margaret glanced at Abraham’s now distant back as the wind picked up around them, rustling branches and stirring leaves. “I made my choice about what side I was on long before Hewlett ever came to town. I made the choice to _do_ something. And now if Abe won’t do this…” she gravely looked back at Anna. “I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was quite nervous for this chapter since it's our first time in Ben's POV, and I really hope I did him justice! There will be a Ben POV every couple of chapters.  
> Shorter chapter this week (short for me is 6.5k words lol), but chapters three and four are absolutely MASSIVE, so they'll definitely make up for it. Even though it was a bit shorter and slower there was a *lot* of groundwork laid, so this'll definitely be a chapter to remember in the future.  
> If anyone's interested, here's a link to the Spotify playlist I made to write/edit to, I use it as sort of the soundtrack to this fic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5WYbNFj9v7IhPTb0dnqUmj?si=OrM8eaxCT1eKstMUZpArgA  
> As always, comments are appreciated more than I can ever express, thanks so much to everyone who's taken the time so far! Also, please feel free to come talk to me on tumblr @ginfueledmusings ! Askbox and messages are open to all, come talk to me about the fic (or anything)!  
> -Enjoy! Gin


	4. Chapter Three: Need to Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A joyful reunion in Setauket is marred by secrets. Margaret is haunted by visions in the night, and unwittingly takes her first steps into the world of spies. Caleb is taught a harsh lesson even as he reaches out a comforting hand. Abe makes decisions...again. The spies find their trust in each other on shaky ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The best way of keeping a secret is to pretend there isn't one.” Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
> 
> “ISMENE: We two are alone, and we are girls. Girls cannot force their way against men. / ANTIGONE: Yet I will.” Sophocles trans. Anne Carson, Antigonick
> 
> “(…) just as our eyes tailor to the darkness, so do our souls.” Hafsah Faizal, We Hunt the Flame
> 
> “I’m in pain because the day is ending and somehow I am never healing.” Anne Sexton, from A Self-Portrait In Letters

_Chapter Three_

Need to Know

_November 8th, 1776_

_Strong Manor, Setauket_

Margaret woke screaming. 

This was not a novel occurrence as of late. That evening, however, was the fourth consecutive night that consisted primarily of sitting at the edge of her bed staring out the window, her few precious minutes of stolen sleep disturbed by the night terrors that had plagued her since the fifth of November. It was quickly becoming tiresome.

Both that night and the one before she had asked Anna to close the tavern alone again, feigning fatigue from the excitement of the past weeks and a desire to spend a few evenings quietly in order to recover. In truth, this was so Margaret could fall asleep in the early hours of the evening when the house was mostly empty; when she inevitably woke shrieking into her pillow but an hour later, she would be left alone to try and calm herself instead of found shaking, drowning in a cold sweat as Anna burst into her room in concern, as happened the sixth of November – the second sleepless night. Thankfully, Margaret managed to convince Anna it was a rare occurrence brought on by the events of the past year and was not to be worried over. 

She knew her time was running out to continue this pattern. Usually on Sunday through Wednesday – Margaret’s laundry days – she worked in the tavern from early evening to close, the other days arriving an hour before opening and leaving soon after closing, just as Anna had to every day. Keeping up this schedule of only working in the tavern a few hours a day wasn’t only unfair to Anna, it was bound to make her suspicious.

Peeling her blankets away from her body, Margaret swung shaky legs over the edge of her bed, slowly straightening when she felt she could support herself. She shuffled to her modest washstand next to the window and poured a small amount of water from the glass pitcher into the bowl before cupping it in her hands and splashing it over her face. She heaved a sigh as she tilted her chin to the ceiling, allowing the tepid water to slide down her neck and onto the damp shift clinging to clammy skin that was quickly turning to gooseflesh in the November night air. Pulling the cord of her cross over her head, she exchanged it for a towel to thoroughly dry her face and neck as she prepared to spend yet another endless night reading, sewing, reciting any and all bible verses and prose she could recall, and pacing, counting the floorboards in her room as she walked. In short, any activity that could prevent her mind from wandering down paths she had no wish to revisit.

After wiping down her neck, chest, and limbs, Margaret bunched the towel in her hands and pressed her face into it. Squeezing her eyes shut, a vestige of her nightly horrors flashed behind her eyes: the lifeless bodies of her loved ones flashing one after another in a circle of flames. 

_Abraham._

_Caleb._

_Anna._

_Ben._

_Abraham, Caleb, Anna, Ben._

_AbrahamCalebAnnaBenAbrahamCalebAnnaBenAbrahamCalebAn—_

She wrenched the towel away from her face, opening her eyes and desperately gulping in a gasp of air as if it alone could dispel the terrible images from her mind. Every so often, her own form would appear in the blaze, the only one with no outward injury. 

_What does it all mean?_

Suddenly furious at her torment, she hurled the towel at the ground, barely biting back a frustrated scream. 

_God, I don’t understand. Why show me this?_

Rubbing her hands across her fatigued eyes and down her face, Margaret reached to return her cross to around her neck, letting the comforting weight on her chest ground her in reality. _What am I meant to do?_ She glanced out her window at the familiar sight of the grassy bank behind the house leading to the night sky’s reflection twinkling on the Sound and paused at the decidedly unfamiliar shadow creeping in the corner of her vision. Frowning, Margaret moved closer to the window, peering at the now unmistakable silhouette of a person hanging a petticoat on Anna’s line. She couldn’t be entirely certain in the darkness of night, but with the light from the moon, she was almost positive it was a _black_ petticoat. 

“Anna, what are you doing?” Margaret murmured to herself, her voice hoarse. 

_Abe made his priorities exceedingly clear, what information could there be? Besides, Caleb won’t be able to see it until morning, why would you..._ she squinted as the figure bolted into the barn, seeing a long coat and wide brimmed hat. A man. It must be Abe after all. Her eyes widened, realizing he must have done an about face yet again. 

_Good on you, Abe_.

Positively dying of curiosity, Margaret dashed about the small room to put on enough clothes so as not to be entirely scandalous; yanking her stockings up her legs and deciding to forgo garters in the interest of time, she shoved her feet into shoes, tied the previous day’s petticoat that she had carelessly thrown over her trunk around her waist and snatched her heaviest shawl to throw about her shoulders as she bounded down the stairs to the back door. 

Pausing only moments before yanking open the door, she registered the chatter of redcoats walking up the back stairs. While she cursed her misfortune, Margaret realized in truth she had been quite lucky indeed that she had not come upon anyone on the staircase in her state of utter dishevelment: half-dressed and curly reddish-brown hair wild and loose about her shoulders. The last thing she needed now was the billeted redcoats thinking her a woman of loose morals headed to a midnight tryst. If even one spotted her, such a rumor would spiral out of control through town before she could dream of stopping it.

Margaret tugged a hand through her hair and carefully listened for quiet footsteps or conversation as she rerouted herself through the servant’s stair to the side door, hesitating only long enough to tug her stockings back up her legs and stay out of sight of Abigail, who was turning a corner and continuing down the hallway. Margaret bolted to the door and slid through as small an opening as possible, wincing at the squeak of the hinges as she eased it closed. 

Peering about for possible onlookers, she dashed to the hay barn, pulling her shawl tight as the night air bit at her exposed skin. 

“Abraham?” Margaret hissed as she entered, leaving the lamp hanging outside the door lest someone notice it gone and squinting into the diluted moonlight pouring through the slats of the walls. “Abe, is it you? Anna, are you here?”

Margaret’s heart positively stopped as the mound of hay a few feet in front of her _moved_ , and the whiskered face of one Caleb Brewster appeared, grinning in delight at her barely-muffled shriek of surprise as he bounded to his feet. 

“Why Miss Peggy Roe, you are not who I expected to see. How’s my favorite lady, eh?” Caleb exclaimed as he bolted towards her and grabbed her about the waist, swinging her around in a circle in a fierce hug that lifted her feet from the floor.

Margaret let out a surprised laugh at his antics, hugging him about the shoulders just as tightly as he gently set her back on her feet, her shawl knocked loose to somewhere in the hay. To see Caleb alive and well, a genuine smile on his face without a bloody match on his throat...it was a relief greater than she could have said.

“Don’t let Anna hear you say that,” she giggled. “But oh, it’s good to see you,” she murmured into his ear.

The smuggler pulled back, leaving his hands resting lightly on her waist. “And you, Miss Peggy...are not dressed,” his eyes widened as he took in her appearance.

“It’s Meg. And I am so...partially,” Margaret corrected as she turned away to look for her wayward shawl. Pulling it from the hay, she shook it out and wrapped it tightly around herself once more. “Better?” she teased as she turned back to Caleb.

“Much,” he affirmed, giving her another signature grin. “Benny-boy and I are in enough trouble already, don’t need to be seeing what he hasn’t even seen and lose my only ally.” 

Margaret rolled her eyes with a fond smile, thinking over what Caleb said.

“So, you’ve seen Ben?” she asked with faux excitement, deciding to have a bit of fun with her old friend. 

Living with Anna had begun to shake the dust from the part of Margaret that remembered trivial fun such as teasing and laughing with friends — simple, meaningless things that kept one’s spirit light and heart full. It was a fond muscle she desperately wished to strengthen out of its disuse.

Caleb froze. “Er...yeah, I have,” he nodded. “Once. He...seems to be doing well,” he offered, likely believing Abe to have kept his mission hidden from her. 

Margaret smiled with no pretense of relief at another account of Ben’s wellness. “Where did you see him? No, wait!” Margaret exclaimed as Caleb opened his mouth. “I’ll guess!” 

She hid a grin at his bewildered expression. “Now, Abe told Anna and I that he saw you at Frog’s Point,” she mused truthfully. “So...perhaps you got caught smuggling and it was Ben that made sure you went free?” she smiled innocently at his affronted look.

“I did not get caught!”

“All right,” she smirked. “You didn’t get caught. Perhaps you...delivered smuggled supplies to the army?” she allowed herself a grin at her own secret jest. “No, no, that’s not it. I know!” she snapped her fingers. “You are...with the New York Regiment of the Continental Army, working under Ben on special assignment.” she accused, tone sharpening to a deliberate point.

After a pause, Caleb let out a harsh laugh at her put-on, pointing a finger at her as he settled back onto the ground. “You know, the idea of a secret intelligence mission is to actually keep it a secret. You might wanna pass that on to Abe.”

“Or perhaps Abe saw no reason to keep it from me,” Margaret replied archly. “But...yes, I see your point,” she conceded, perching in the hay across from him. “What are you doing here, anyways? I thought you were supposed to meet Abe in a cove when Anna signals?”

Caleb hesitated. “Well...like I said, Tallboy and I are in a spot of trouble, I came to find Anna to get a message to Woody that we’re in need of intelligence.”

Margaret rolled her eyes, less fondly this time, as she was brushed aside again. “Anna should be back from the tavern soon, I’m sure she’ll see your signal. I’ll just be going, then,” she started to rise from the floor in indignation, “since I’m not _Anna_ or _Abraham_ I won’t be of much use to you.”

“Come now, Peggy-lass, don’t be saying that,” Caleb admonished, grabbing her hand and pulling her back to the hay. 

“ _Don’t_ call me Peggy. And it’s true, you know it as well as I,” she shot back as she fell to the ground with a huff. “You could have included me from the beginning and chose not to.” 

Caleb raised his hands in innocence, “Look, since Abe told you everything else, I assume you know that I’m not the one making decisions.”

“Oh, believe me, I’m aware,” she grumbled, pursing her lips.

_Blue-eyed bastard._

Caleb gave her a softly reprehensive look. “He’s trying to protect you, _Meg_.”

“I can take care of myself!”

Caleb paused in thought before smirking at her. “You know, that reminds me of something. About a month back or so, I ran into a friend of mine through the London Trade by the name of Sobel.” 

Margaret’s stomach dropped at his abrupt turn in the conversation. “Oh?” she intoned, putting on an air of innocence while fear rose in her throat. _He knows_. 

“We had a bit of a friendly chat, but it was getting on in the day, so he took his leave, saying he had a special run he was doing across the Belt. That caught my interest, you might say,” Caleb continued, “so I told him I’m from the Island, from _Setauket_ , and know the Sound like no one else. I asked him whereabout he was headed, but he was determined not to tell me his destination. Or his contact,” he added, raising his eyebrows at Margaret.

She swallowed hard, attempting to maintain an unassuming expression. If Sobel had let it slip, she could never allow herself to trust him again — there was no way of telling if he had disclosed her secret to anyone else.

“You know, Sobel’s the loyal sort, but he’s never been the best card player,” the smuggler mused, crossing his arms over his stomach, “and I could’ve sworn I saw... _something_ on his face when I mentioned Setauket, but all he’d say was he’d be returning that night. So, when he left, I decided I might as well follow him across the Sound, see what he was up to. I stayed far away and quiet,” Caleb continued his narration animatedly, ignoring Margaret’s now comically wide eyes, “and followed him not to Setauket, like I thought, but a little cove of _Smithtown_. After I shored up a ways down the bank and walked back to where Sobel made berth, I saw why he might’ve been a bit uneasy when I mentioned our dear little town,” Caleb finished his tale with a small grin.

Margaret’s mind was reeling. She had no idea what to think of Caleb’s elaborate tale, except that it seemed her secret was steadily becoming less so. A memory flashed through her mind, one she had not returned to since dismissing it over a week ago. 

“It _was_ you!” she accused. “I saw you at the cove in October! I could’ve sworn I saw you hiding in the woods, but you disappeared before I could really tell and I thought I imagined it,” she elaborated. “Why didn’t you show yourself?”

“I…I don't know.” Caleb looked down, mirth vanishing. “I was planning to, but I was...I was angry with you, lass.”

Margaret blinked in surprise. “With me? Whatever for?”

“For putting yourself in danger like that, meeting with a patriot smuggler on this side of the Belt, and so close to York City,” Caleb glared at her. “But then I thought, maybe she doesn’t realize how stupid she’s being,” he ignored Margaret’s return glare, “or maybe she doesn’t know Sobel’s a known patriot, and I didn’t know what I would say, then you heard me move and grabbed that little pistol of yours, and before I knew it I was in my boat headed back to Connecticut to wait for Sobel. I didn’t know what else to do,” he finished.

She raised an eyebrow. “Well, I certainly know Sobel’s allegiance — I meet with him _because_ of it. Whatever supplies I can scrape together over the course of the month he takes to the nearest Continental camp. I might also point out that I’m in no more danger when we meet than I am now, sitting with a patriot smuggler in a hay barn with ten redcoats in the house just across the way,” she finished dryly.

Caleb opened his mouth to dispute her challenging look, but coming up with no viable argument, he closed it again as she continued. 

“I appreciate your concern, Caleb, but I promise we are careful…” she rethought her words in light of what he had just told her, “mostly, I suppose, if you managed to find us.”

“Believe me, I had a few words for him when he got back — if I hadn’t been a friend, he could’ve gotten you caught or killed,” he frowned. “He tried to tell me you have a signal when you approach and some kind of plan for meeting in different coves, but none of that will make any difference if anyone can follow him across the bloody Belt!” he finished with a huff. 

Margaret gazed back at him with a small smile. Caleb Brewster: rowdy, impetuous smuggler with a heart of gold. 

“All this to say that you can’t always take care of yourself. There’s no sin in allowing someone to care enough to look after you, Meg.”

“I suppose.” After all, wasn’t that what she and Anna were doing? Suddenly, her eyes widened, a terrible thought striking her. “Did you tell Ben?”

He would surely disapprove of her activities. _Did he tell Caleb to tell me to stop? If he thinks he has any right to order me around—_

“No,” Caleb answered with a small shake of his head, cutting off her thoughts. “He’s been...having a bit of a rough go lately, I didn’t want to add to it with a _problem,_ ” he looked pointedly at her, “that he can’t do anything about. But mark me, little lass, this isn’t the kind of secret I’m willing to keep forever.”

“Fine,” she looked at him sourly even as she voiced her assent. Her brow furrowed as Caleb’s multiple allusions to trouble echoed in her mind. “Is Ben all right?” she worried, concern far outweighing her annoyance.

Caleb hesitated only briefly. “He will be.”

“Caleb—”

“He will be.” He paused. “After all, he’s got me looking out for him,” he smirked.

“And I thank God for that,” Margaret told him sincerely, more than a little gratitude and gravity coloring her words.

Caleb lowered his eyes self-consciously, his hands fidgeting as a slight flush rose up his neck into his beard. 

Inferring Caleb wouldn’t reveal any more information even if she pressed further, Margaret allowed a break in the conversation as they both thought over the revelations of the night. Her mind groggy from sleepless nights, she felt as though she was trudging through thick mud that clung to her skirts and swallowed her feet in order to reach conclusions she normally would have drawn easily. It had taken her far too long to inquire after whatever predicament Ben found himself in, true, but there was something else tugging at a corner of her mind that she was straining to reach, but could only scarcely brush her fingers against…

 _There it is_. 

Margaret’s gaze snapped back to the man across from her. “You don’t seem surprised that I’m living here,” she stated abruptly, confusion and suspicion rising at the realization.

Caleb paused before glancing her way. “Hm?”

“You said you didn’t expect to see me, but you never questioned why I was here,” she elaborated more firmly.

Caleb hesitated, running a hand over his whiskers and nodding only somewhat convincingly. “Yeah, uh...Abe mentioned it.”

 _Liar_.

Margaret narrowed her eyes at him, but before she could press further, Caleb continued, a thought of his own seeming to strike him.

“What about Austin?” Caleb questioned; concern clear on his face. “Ben told me something happened to the smithy? And that your mother and father both passed earlier this year, I was sorry to hear it,” he sympathized. “But your brother’s all right on his own with you here? Or has he finally found a lady?”

The ground fell out from under Margaret’s feet.

_He doesn’t know._

Her breath came fast and her heart pounded in her chest as she stared at Caleb with wide eyes, unable to respond.

 _Which means..._ Ben _doesn’t know_.

There was no chance Ben would have kept such a thing from Caleb. She pondered if it was possible they didn’t know the specifics of the events in September; they undoubtedly had heard tell of the cataclysm that befell Setauket – and most of Long Island – at the hands of the British, but, as she well knew, communication to the Continental camps from enemy territory was difficult and downright dangerous.

Margaret felt a sudden lightness flood her limbs. She had never truly been abandoned the way she thought.

 _Of course you weren’t, you foolish girl. You knew all along – Ben would **never**_.

She pushed aside her elation as she realized Caleb surely expected an answer. He had unwittingly backed her into a corner, and she considered her options:

If she told Caleb the truth, he would surely tell Ben, and it would only add to his worries. There was also the chance that he _would_ finally send for her, and her smuggling would end, as well as any chance of gathering intelligence vanishing. 

If she hedged around the question, however, Caleb would surely wonder why and might press for further details, leading back to number one. 

If she lied outright, it created the possibility of Caleb or Ben finding out through some other avenue and she would find herself in hot water with them both later on. 

_Secrets and lies._

_I’m going to regret this_.

“Meg?”

Margaret nodded slowly, trying to cover her pause. “Sorry, I just…I realized I never actually asked how he…how he felt about my living here.” Not exactly a lie. “He, uh...we both struggled greatly for some time after our parents’ deaths — understandably, of course, but we still had each other. But business began drying up in the smithy last year – while my parents were ill – when the wealthier Tories decided to withhold patronage from certain businesses owned by known patriots.”

Caleb spit on the ground in disgust at the actions of their neighbors, a venomous expression on his face.

“Between the loss of income and the cost of tending to our parents, we were given no choice but to sell just to have enough money for food. Blacksmithing was all Austin knew, all he ever wanted to do, and losing the smithy…it was if nothing else mattered,” she choked out, remembering the living corpse of her brother sitting in a chair by the hearth, staring blankly forward as she kneeled before him, crying, screaming, begging him just to eat. To live. “When word of the Declaration reached us he showed signs of improvement; it was…hope. Hope that this all might not be in vain. And when the redcoats took New York, he found himself again — found purpose in the cause. He began his own little rebellion about town,” she smiled sadly at the memory. Even though it was the most hopeful Margaret had been in months, it was also the most terrified, not knowing what each tomorrow would bring.

“But he’s all right?” Caleb pressed. “Has he had problems with the bloodybacks?”

Though Margaret appreciated his concern, she was confused by it. If he didn’t know what had happened, he had no more reason to worry over Austin Roe than any of the other patriots in Setauket. 

“He...he did have some trouble, unsurprisingly. He certainly wasn’t keen on being as cautious as I asked him to be. But…” Margaret bit her tongue, hard. She put every ounce of strength she had into keeping her voice steady as she continued with her half-truths. “But it was dealt with. It’s all over.”

Though she saw a relieved look on his face, before Caleb could open his mouth to respond they both snapped their heads toward the closed door of the barn as they heard a wagon approaching.

Margaret breathed a small sigh of relief. “It’s probably Anna back from the tavern,” she said as she stood and hurried over to peer through the slats of the wall, rubbing a hand along her burning eyes to hide any possible evidence of her dishonesty from Caleb. Sure enough, she could make out her friend in the darkness, pausing after getting off the wagon driven by a soldier and walking towards the black petticoat on the line. 

“It _is_ Anna, she’s seen the signal,” she confirmed over her shoulder to Caleb, who was already partially covered with hay once again. She furrowed her brow as he continued burying himself, “Caleb, it’s Anna, she's on her way over here.”

“I heard you.”

Margaret scoffed even as she made her way to the darkened corner of the barn, out of sight. 

_There’s a war on, might as well let the madman have his fun_.

* * *

Margaret startled back to consciousness as Caleb smacked a bucket across the barn and swore. 

Having nestled herself in a large pile of hay, curling her knees to her chest and leaning against a post, she had managed to drift into a restful doze while he chatted with Anna, their familiar, comforting voices a lullaby.

Now, however…

She rubbed alertness into her eyes as Caleb darkly laughed. 

“There’s a word for this, Annie. There is a _damnable_ word.”

“Hm. I’m guessing, then, that you haven’t exhausted your lexicon,” Anna deadpanned as Margaret stretched her limbs free of cramps, idly removing several stray pieces of hay from her petticoat. 

“Ironic,” Caleb continued as if she hadn’t spoken, shaking a finger towards her, “yeah. Now I may not have gone to Yale, but I did screw a well-read woman in New Haven—”

Margaret snorted.

Caleb proceeded, ignoring her as well. “And this is ironic that that little skinny bastard is in New York, _right_ where I want him. Only, y’know, instead of procuring intelligence, that little shite is selling hogs,” he scoffed as he turned away from the women, tensity tightening across his shoulders.

Fully alert now, Margaret sat forward as she shared a look with Anna. The singular positive of her sleepless nights was being allowed plenty of time for planning potential intelligence missions, and, after several discreet conversations with Anna, they’d finally settled on the one most likely to succeed. This could be the moment they’d been waiting for to act. 

“You need information…” Anna started.

“Yeah,” Caleb sighed, not turning around.

“We can get it for you,” Margaret declared, rising from the hay.

At that, Caleb turned, disbelief on his face. “We?”

Margaret glanced to Anna again, small smiles on their faces. “Yes. We’ve been discussing possible ways for the two of us to get intelligence—”

“You’ve been _what_?”

Margaret shot him a look, “Don’t interrupt. We’ve been going over strategies the past few days for how to get information to you and Ben.”

She had no doubt both men would be resistant to the idea at first, but she was confident in her and Anna’s ability to convince them of the ingenuity of their proposal.

“I had the thought of lowering the price of ale and searching through the rooms of the soldiers billeted here, as the two of us already have—” Anna started, ignoring Caleb’s dumbfounded expression.

“Then we realized that wasn’t big enough,” Margaret finished animatedly, beginning to pace as she drew out her plan for the smuggler. 

“The men around here will be helpful for small information, plots like the safehouse,” Anna supplied.

“But we know the true goal is York City,” Margaret continued with a grin. “We can get there—”

“No.”

Both women paused, taken aback by Caleb’s harsh tone and immediate dismissal. 

“I—just listen, Caleb. _Truly_ listen. Now, we figure we can get onto the Island using the tavern as cover—” Margaret began, gesturing with her hands as her excitement mounted.

“No. No, I’m sorry.”

“We’d be making supply runs—” Anna tried to pick up where Margaret left off, all three voices rising to speak over one another.

“No! Annie, I—”

“Stop calling me Annie!” Anna snapped. “And why not?” 

“Because it’s not the thing, all right?” Caleb said, glancing between the two of them. 

Margaret took a step backwards as Anna looked at him in disgust.

“Because we’re women?” Anna snarled, sharing a knowing look with the shorter woman.

“Well, yeah. Because you’re women,” Caleb patronized, “and this is men’s work.”

“ _This_ is asinine!” Margaret rounded on him. “Or shall I amend myself in case you’ve not been taught that word by a woman you’ve _fucked_?” she spat. 

“Margaret!” 

“No!” Anna cut off Caleb’s exclamation. “You don’t mind me pinning up a few petticoats, and you’re perfectly happy to hide out here in my barn—”

“And you’ll so graciously _allow_ me to continue smuggling — for the time being, that is,” Margaret interjected.

“But having us do anything more offends your delicate notions of a woman’s proper place,” Anna continued “which appears to be suffering under your bulk.” 

“When we’re not improving your English,” Margaret added. 

Caleb let out a derisive laugh, “So this must be marriage, then.”

“Caleb Brewster! I can’t think of a man in these parts braver or more capable than half the women I know,” Anna scolded, advancing on him. “Look at Margaret! Everyone she’s loved has left or died or abandoned her, us included,” she gave him a severe look, “and she is still here! She’s fighting, smuggling, risking her life!”

“You as well,” Margaret said earnestly to Anna, building on her momentum. She turned back to the increasingly annoyed man. “Her husband was taken from her and she was left to face everything on her own, she’s suffered the derision of the Tories, same as me, had her entire life upended, and she still wants to fight!” 

Margaret looked Caleb up and down as her chest heaved with emotion, seeing him and the other men of her life in a new light. Her brother, leaving her to support both of them for months in his grief before awakening only to get himself killed. Ben, deciding the war was more important than her but still believing himself to be tasked with her “protection.” Abraham thinking he had the right to tell Anna what to do despite having spent the past years entirely disregarding her after marrying someone else. And now Caleb, deciding women were too fragile or stupid for work such as this. She snarled at him, a feral anger rising deep in her chest in an unfamiliar way. “We women are ready to fight this war, _win_ this war, but are held back by cowardly men like you!”

Caleb’s face tightened. “Let me amend myself,” he taunted, looking to Anna. “This must be marriage.” He glanced over at Margaret. “And a mistress, too.”

Margaret slapped him across the face.

Silence rang out in the barn. Margaret swallowed hard as she watched a vibrant red print form on Caleb’s cheek. She hadn’t planned to strike him, truly. A crude remark such as that coming from the brash man wouldn’t usually warrant such a response, but her terrifying, sleepless nights combined with her anger led to an intense reaction she hadn’t intended. 

She could not, however, bring herself to apologize for it. 

Margaret cleared her throat as Caleb rubbed at his cheek, looking at her almost contritely. 

“If you don’t want our help, none of it matters, anyways,” she muttered.

“What do you mean?” Caleb grumbled.

“Abe’s out. He won’t do it anymore. He told us so a few days ago.”

Balking, Caleb looked to Anna, her expression confirming Margaret’s terrible news. “No no no. No, you can’t be serious.”

“What happened to Captain Simcoe?” Anna interrupted.

Caleb faltered, “Simcoe?” 

“His body wasn’t recovered.”

“Annie— uh, Anna,” Caleb stalled.

Margaret felt a sinking feeling grow in her stomach.

“I, uh, I’m sorry about what happened to your husband,” he tried to deflect.

“Oh God,” Margaret put a hand over her mouth as she realized the truth Caleb had to be shying away from. 

“Simcoe,” Anna demanded, staring him down. “You promised Abe you’d send him to his reward.”

Caleb nodded, looking repentant. His eyes darted between the two furious women standing in front of him. “We planned to...after we questioned him, but...”

“Tell me it wasn’t Ben,” Margaret whispered, her heart sinking. “Tell me it wasn’t Ben’s idea.”

“Meg, it...the plan went wrong,” he mumbled. 

Caleb’s deflection of her question was answer enough. 

Ben had broken his word to one of his best friends. Someone he asked to put their life in danger. And almost worse — Ben made Caleb break his word. Her earlier joy at the assurance of Ben’s strength of character diffused like their warm, visible breath in the cold air. All that time spent doubting him, doubting his honor…she had been right after all.

 _I don’t even know him anymore_.

Margaret’s face crumpled at the terrible realization as she staggered back from Caleb and the shadow of Ben’s betrayal. There was clearly no possibility he knew of her hatred towards Simcoe, but keeping him alive with the knowledge of the threat the man posed to their friends was sin enough.

“Now he’s in the custody of—”

“Get out.” The ferocity in Anna’s eyes was enough to send any man running.

“Come on, An—”

Margaret sunk down on the hay in anguish, legs unable to support her anymore as Anna smacked at Caleb’s chest. 

“Get out!” she shrieked, pushing the traitor to the door of the barn. 

“All right!” Caleb put his hands in the air.

“If you can’t keep a promise, we can’t trust you here,” Anna charged, shoving him even as he grabbed his hat off a nail. “Get out.”

Margaret looked up in time to meet his eyes as he opened the door; she knew he must’ve seen the despair she was unable and unwilling to hide. 

He opened his mouth, hesitated, and left without another word.

* * *

An hour later, Margaret was once again glaring through half-closed eyes at the smuggler sitting across from her amidst the hay. 

After his exit, she and Anna had remained in the barn, sifting through the events of the night. Anger over Caleb’s dismissal, frustration with his hypocrisy, unease at Abe’s desertion, fear over Simcoe’s survival. The two exhausted friends had finally decided the lure of rest in a soft, warm bed trounced the desire of further emotional analysis in a cold, dark barn when the door creaked open to reveal a familiar, now disheartened shape, hands held up in surrender. 

For the umpteenth time that night, Margaret rubbed her eyes roughly to discourage their indomitable fatigue. It seemed as though any morsel of energy that remained to her had been spent giving Caleb the thrashing he so richly deserved. Her current position didn’t at all help her wakefulness either; slumped on the ground next to Anna, who had perched on an upturned bucket, Margaret was curled into her friend’s side, head resting on her hip with her arm draped over Margaret’s shoulders. Perhaps if she drifted off surrounded by the safety of friends, they would be able to keep the specters of her sleep at bay…

 _No._ She mentally shook herself, sitting up more fully as Anna inquired after Caleb’s escape plan.

“Actually, I could, uh...I could use your help on that score,” Caleb said sheepishly without looking up, mangling the hunk of bread Anna had brought him from the house.

Margaret raised an eyebrow as Anna straightened.

“You mean women’s help?” Anna mocked snidely. 

Margaret let out a quiet snort as Caleb set the now demolished bread in the hay.

“Right,” he brushed his hands on his pants and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Strong, I would be eternally grateful if a brave and capable woman such as yourself could go down to the wharf and see if there might be any unattended boats that I could borrow, if only to get me out of your hair. And your barn.” 

Anna allowed herself a small smile.

Caleb turned his gaze to Margaret. “And Miss Roe — soon to be Mrs. Tallmadge if I have anything to say about it —” at this, Margaret blushed and rolled her eyes, “I would be eternally grateful if a brave and capable woman such as yourself could stay here to keep watch, honor me with your company, and absolutely not go down to the wharf in your current state of undress.” 

Margaret shot him a withering look, then met Anna’s eyes, arriving at an unspoken understanding with her. Caleb’s hurtful words would not be soon forgotten, but they were forgiven; that is, at least for the night.

“Well, Mr. Brewster, since you asked so nicely…” Anna mimicked Caleb’s formal tone, “I’ll see what I can do.” 

Caleb sobered after a shared smile between the three of them. “Sorry about Simcoe,” he said sincerely to Anna, his eyes sliding over and holding briefly on Margaret.

Margaret frowned in confusion. She had since established he and Ben knew of no connection between herself and Simcoe, why would he apologize to her? Unless of course it was on Ben’s behalf for his deception.

“I suppose when Woody finds out, we’ll never be able to change his mind.”

“I doubt we would have been able to anyways,” Margaret sighed, finally speaking. “I already tried.”

“He told me he’s done with this “double life” as he called it,” Anna added. 

Caleb nodded, heaving a resigned sigh. 

With that, Anna stood, causing Margaret to scoot further into the hay to replace Anna with a barn post as a leaning place. “I best get down to the docks to get you on your way,” she said, brushing off her skirts. “I’ll be back soon.” 

As the door closed behind her, silence permeated the chilly night air for several slightly uncomfortable minutes. 

Fighting a losing battle to stay awake, Margaret jerked her head upright when Caleb finally spoke.

“Peg—” he cut himself off and cleared his throat. “Lass, you look like _shite_.”

“You always did know how to talk to a lady, Caleb,” she lightly sneered in response, wearily scrubbing her hands over her face. She knew he wasn’t wrong, though. Every morning while fixing her hair, the face in her mirror had grown increasingly unrecognizable as dark smudges spread under her eyes, and her cheekbones — which had steadily become more pronounced over the past year as food dwindled in her pantry and grief was her constant companion — now caused her face to appear gaunt and drawn.

He gazed back in concern, for once not allowing her to sidestep his remark with banter. “Are you all right?” 

Margaret sighed. 

_Secrets and lies._

_Deceit and perjury._

_A lie of omission is still a lie._

She was too tired to play the spy against her dear friend anymore tonight. 

“I would say I’m tired, but that wouldn’t be nearly severe enough. I’ve gotten no more than an hour or two of sleep each night since the fifth,” she confessed, feeling a proverbial weight lifting from her chest. “I’ve taken to sleeping in the early evening so when I awaken screaming I’m not a bother to anyone,” she said flippantly, resting her arms on her knees. “I’ve not been allowing myself to go back to sleep after that.”

“Nightmares?” Caleb asked, giving her a sympathetic smile. At her nod, he continued, “We’ll all be having a hell of a lot more of those before this is all said and done. D’you wanna...I don’t know, tell me about ‘em?” he asked awkwardly.

Margaret shook her head vehemently, afraid telling another soul would speak her horrible visions into existence. 

“Well then, only one thing to be done,” Caleb said, slapping his hands on his knees and pushing himself to his feet. “It’ll be a bit yet before Anna returns, might as well get some shut-eye before she does.” He settled down next to Margaret, wrapping an arm tightly around her, encouraging her to shift her weight the other direction, towards him.

Had any other man been so forward, the least she’d have done was deliver a swift slap to his face. But this was Caleb, who was...well, Caleb, and therefore allowed certain liberties; besides, she had already struck him once tonight, any more would be excessive. He was also one of only two men in the entire world she would ever allow herself to sit with in close embrace on the floor of a hay barn, her hair loose and wearing hardly any overclothes.

“Caleb, I…I can’t,” Margaret protested in a whisper, her breath accelerating. “I’ve only been sleeping enough to make it through the day, I _can’t_ fall asleep again, I can’t bear it.” 

“Hey, now,” Caleb shushed her, reaching over to move a lock of hair out of her face. “I’m right here next to you, all right? I certainly won’t be going to sleep, and I can wake you up if it seems like you need it,” he smiled down at her.

Her eyes welling at his kindness and his gentle heart, she managed to return his smile. “Caleb...you always were the best of us.”

He let out a disbelieving laugh. “I wouldn’t go quite that far, lass.” 

A fond grin gracing her face, Margaret took several deep breaths, allowing herself to relax into Caleb’s side, nestling her head on his shoulder. If she closed her eyes, she could almost believe it was her brother there beside her, giving her shelter and comfort – with no small amount of teasing – as he had done her entire life. She could almost believe he—

 _No_.

Her brother was dead.

If she strayed down a path of memory such as the one she had just skirted by, she would surely be lost.

After collecting herself for a moment, she spoke. “Caleb?”

“Hm?”

“...I’m sorry for striking you.”

He huffed out a quiet chuckle. “No skin off my nose, Maggie. I’ve been smacked about by more ladies than just you.”

Margaret scoffed derisively, fully believing him. She paused. “Maggie?”

She felt Caleb shrug. “Thought I’d try something new. And besides,” he continued in a defeated tone, “if you hadn’t hit me when I was being an arse, I’m sure you would’ve when I told you about Simcoe.”

“How could he do it?”

“Ben?”

“Yes.” She grit her teeth. “How…how could he do something like this? Go back on his word?”

Caleb sighed. “I don’t know, lass. I suppose he thought he was doing right. I’m certainly not one to judge him for making a wrong decision…at least not until we see how it all turns out.”

Which reminded her…

She decided against trying to tilt her chin up to see his face, thinking perhaps he’d be more forthcoming if he didn’t have to look her in the eye.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“What?”

“About Simcoe,” she clarified. “I know you’re holding something back, what is it?”

Margaret felt Caleb’s chest move under her cheek as he heaved a sigh.

“It’s nothing for you to worry about right now, lass.”

“Caleb…” Margaret warned.

“You’re just going to need to trust me, all right? You and Anna watch out for each other,” Caleb firmly directed. “And remember, if…if anything happens, the rest of us are never too far away.” 

“But you are,” Margaret argued with a soul-deep exhaustion. “No matter how close you are on a map, from where I stand the Sound might as well be the whole bloody Atlantic.” 

She felt defeated tears well in her eyes yet again. After swallowing them back for months, she felt as though a dam had broken inside her and any excess of emotion brought forth the river that was finally freed.

Caleb gave her no verbal response, but she felt a firm kiss pressed to the top of her head.

After a few minutes of silence, Margaret felt her eyelids grow heavy and her breathing begin to even out, wrapped in Caleb’s safety and warmth. Suddenly terrified again of the prospect of sleep, she forced her eyes open and tried to focus on her surroundings to keep her mind occupied.

“Caleb?”

“Mm?”

“You smell terrible.”

She felt his chest bounce in laughter even as he put on an over-dramatic, affronted tone.

“You know what, little Miss Margaret Roe? I’d very much like to see you thwart a redcoat ambush, do an interrogation, traipse all over Connecticut, and row back and forth across the bloody Sound a few times for good measure and see if you come out smelling like honeysuckles in the spring!”

She giggled at his dramatics as he tightened his arm around her.

“And I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work with me, so shut up, and go to sleep.”

Surprising herself as well as Caleb, Margaret did just that.

She dreamt of the Sound at night: infinite stars glittering on the glassy surface, darkness turning the deep blue to unfathomable, inky black, the waves bathing grassy banks with a soft _whoosh_ that was as familiar and comforting as her own home. 

She dreamt of wading into icy water with numb toes and damp skirt hems. 

She dreamt of being able to see the Connecticut shore.

And nothing else.

* * *

Margaret could have happily stayed nestled against Caleb until the sun rose. 

Instead, she was rudely awoken when the smuggler’s arm around her shoulders jerked away to rest in the air in front of her as his other hand grabbed his pistol at the sound of a faint creak, causing Margaret to collapse back onto the hay with a sharp gasp. 

Propping herself up on her hands to peer around her protective shield, she could see Anna, lantern in hand and shawl around her shoulders, letting the door swing close behind her.

“Sorry about that, Maggie,” Caleb apologized, reaching for her hands to pull her off her arse after stowing his gun and standing. 

She waved his apology off, turning to their newly returned friend as she stretched her back, feeling something crunch. “Were you successful?”

Anna nodded as the two huddled next to her, “I was able to see the guards unnoticed.”

There was a strange expression on Anna’s face, Margaret noted. Something had rattled her at the docks. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Anna hesitated. “Nothing,” she replied, shaking her head.

“Anna…”

“Nothing of import,” Anna insisted sternly.

“So...two sentries on the dock?” Caleb asked with a raised eyebrow, noticing the looks exchanged.

“Three,” Anna corrected.

“Three, good. Three I can deal with,” Caleb asserted. 

Margaret could practically see the scheme forming in his mind. However it turned out, it was bound to be risky and possibly insane. After all, she knew Caleb well.

“Do you have a plan?” she asked.

“Yeah. Well, more of an interesting way of getting myself killed,” he hedged, “but, y’know...trying to think of how I can improve the odds.”

“Caleb, if this is too dangerous—” Anna fretted, Margaret edging closer to the man’s side and resting a hand on his shoulder, fear clouding her mind.

“No, don’t worry.” He smiled charmingly. “Well, unless the truth is you’re sorry to see me go.”

Margaret turned Caleb slightly to meet his gaze, “What if you didn’t have to? I could hide you in my house, we’ll come up with a better plan later, when it’ll be safer—”

“It’ll never be safer,” Caleb cut off her plea that bordered on desperate. “And hiding out in your house would only put you in more danger. Besides, I’ve gotta get back to your boy,” he gave her a soft smile, chucking her under the chin with his knuckle. “Someone's gotta keep an eye on him while you’re stuck here, who knows what kind of trouble he’s gotten himself into while I've been gone? You just keep your chin up, Miss Meg. You too, Mrs. Strong,” he said, turning his smile to Anna.

“It’s been good to see you,” Anna smiled. “So many…” she hesitated, glancing briefly at Margaret, “so many things have changed around here.” 

Caleb smirked, guessing only part of what Anna was referring to. “Woody only thinks he’s changed, Annie. Mostly his problem is that he married the wrong woman.”

Margaret let out a snort that turned into a choked gasp as an ominous creak sounded once again and Caleb moved in front of her, pulling out and cocking his gun to point at the door and shielding Anna with his other arm, all in the span of a few seconds. 

“Anna?” a hushed call came from the doorway.

A collective breath of relief sounded through the barn at the familiar voice.

“Abraham!” Anna pushed Caleb’s arm out of the way, turning to Abe. 

He was returned from York City unharmed. No bullet wound, no blood. Margaret felt her stomach settle.

“Hey!” Caleb exclaimed, holstering his pistol again. “When did you get back into town?” 

“I might ask you the same thing. Though I think I just got the measure of it,” Abe replied breathlessly.

“You were listening,” Anna accused, sounding somewhat embarrassed. 

“No,” Abe hesitated, “I mean, I only caught a bit.” 

For a moment, it was as if there was no one else in the barn to Abe and Anna but each other. Caleb shifted awkwardly, glancing to Margaret, eyebrows raised. Biting her lips, she responded with a shrug, understanding the tension between the two but unwilling to break the moment.

“Listen, I—” Abe let out a breath. “I came here intending to ask you to hang a petticoat.” He turned back to Caleb, “I bear gifts from New York.”

“Truly? Margaret asked in disbelief, stepping around the post into the pool of light emitting from the lantern as Caleb let out a quiet cackle of joy.

“Jesus!” Abe yelped, jolting back at Margaret’s sudden appearance. “I didn’t see—Jesus _Christ_ , Margaret,” he cut himself off, eyes widening as he turned his head, averting his gaze after taking in her appearance. 

A blush rapidly crawling up her neck to her cheeks, Margaret quickly covered herself with her shawl that had been draped over her elbows, ignoring Caleb’s chuckle. Caleb seeing her in such a state was one thing, Abe was altogether different. 

“What did you find out?” Caleb prompted as Margaret inserted herself between Caleb and Anna, the childhood friends forming a circle. 

Abe hesitated, looking contritely at Margaret. “First, Meg...I’m—”

“It’s all right,” she cut him off, shaking her head slightly as Caleb narrowed his eyes in confusion. She guessed he planned on apologizing for their disagreement when last they met, but it wouldn’t do to have Abe’s guilty conscience give away her deception to Caleb. “What did you find out?” she asked pointedly, repeating Caleb’s question.

Clearly not quite understanding her avoidance of his apology, Abe gave her a short nod nonetheless. “Well, that while the Royal Army prepares to stand down for the winter, a brigade of Hessian mercenaries fifteen hundred strong readies to march to Trenton,” Abe disclosed to the speechless astonishment of the other three. 

“Gold,” Caleb laughed breathlessly, shaking his head. “It’s gold! I gotta get this back to Ben right away,” he grinned at the women standing next to him.

Anna clutched Margaret’s hand as they shared a dumbfounded smile. 

_It is always darkest just before the dawn._

“We’ll help get you out,” Abe assured Caleb. “You can trust me.”

“I do,” he confirmed, sobering. “I do trust you. And I need you to trust me.”

Margaret bit her lip, looking away as Caleb swallowed hard. The success or defeat of Ben’s intelligence plans came down to this. If Abe couldn’t reconcile with Ben’s betrayal, none of it would matter. With Caleb refusing to accept Margaret and Anna’s help, the journey of the Hessians would be the last piece of intelligence gathered from Long Island. 

“I think...I think there’s something you need to know first.

Margaret cursed Ben’s stupidity.

For the life of her, she couldn’t understand why Ben would make such a careless decision, risking sabotaging his own plan before it even had the chance to begin. 

“Let him hear it from me.” Anna had slid her hand from Margaret’s to nervously clutch the corner of her shawl.

Margaret blinked at her, catching in her periphery Caleb’s face reflecting her confusion. She noticed a strange look on Anna’s face: pursed lips and furrowed brow. Quick breaths. Fingers white around her shawl. Face smoothing into a false mask of calm.

Margaret’s eyes widened.

“Captain Simcoe is d—”

“Alive.”

Margaret saw three faces snap in her direction, two furious — for entirely different reasons — and one relieved. 

“It’s not Caleb’s fault,” Margaret continued, watching Abraham’s increasingly incensed face and studiously ignoring Anna’s scowl. “It was Ben. If you’re angry with anyone — and you have a right to be — it should be with him. But you should know first,” she added, holding up a hand to stem the tirade Abe opened his mouth to embark upon, “they had every intention of keeping their word,” she glanced at Caleb, who nodded. “Ben...did choose to betray your trust, but never planned on leaving it that way. That’s what Caleb told us, and I believe him.” She nodded to Caleb to continue and fill in what he hadn’t told the two women earlier.

She loathed to defend Ben at that particular moment (how she wished she could get her hands on him), but knew she had to prevent Abe from thinking the worst of him. She just couldn’t bring herself to believe it was something Ben would have done without good reason; she couldn’t bring herself to believe the man she knew and loved could have changed that much. 

_But it is war, after all_ , she thought. _War has changed us all._

As Caleb briefly recounted his and Ben’s varying interrogation tactics throughout Simcoe’s stay with them, Margaret and Anna carried out a silent conversation.

Margaret furrowed her brow and glared at her: _what were you thinking?_

Anna huffed out a breath and shook her head slightly: _I was being pragmatic — he’ll never agree now_. 

“—and it was General Scott himself, the bastard,” Caleb finished. 

Abraham passed a hand over his mouth, his other hand on his hip. “How could you do this? I trusted you!” he hissed. 

“I know,” Caleb acknowledged. “We were wrong. Trust me, we _both_ know that. And...I’m sorry. It never should’ve happened.” 

Abe turned away, shaking his head. “I was right all along. Tallmadge doesn’t care about us, he cares about his mission. And it’s gonna get one of us caught, or killed,” Abe spat, turning back to the circle.

Margaret looked down, wanting desperately to object to Abe’s claims but not knowing how in the face of such evidence. 

“Abraham, think about this objectively,” Anna entreated.

“Objectively?” Abe scoffed.

“Why did you come here?” Margaret interrupted.

Abe reluctantly broke his eye contact with Anna, “What?”

“You came here to ask Anna to hang a petticoat, you came here with information,” Margaret reminded him. “Incredible information, information that could mean something. Information that could _change_ something,” she glanced around the circle. “You told us you were done. Something changed your mind.” 

“And it wasn’t Simcoe,” Anna added.

“It doesn’t even matter what it was,” Caleb jumped in. “What matters is you’re here.”

“You made a choice, Abe. To help. To trust Anna and Caleb. And Caleb made a choice to tell you the _truth_ , knowing how you’d react, you must respect that,” she glanced surreptitiously at Anna, who narrowed her eyes in return. 

“Trust is in short supply these days, just like everything else,” Caleb said quietly, not looking at either of them.

“And we are going to need to get a lot better at it if this is ever going to work,” Margaret sighed, thinking of the information she hid from Caleb, of Caleb admitting to concealing something from her, of Ben’s betrayal and of Anna’s willingness to lie to Abe. 

_Secrets and lies_.

“But you made a choice,” she looked to Abe, indecision warring on his face, “and you’re going to make a choice every day until this is done. And if you do nothing…” she thought of Ben’s letter. “Then that’s a choice as well.”

Abraham paced away, staring at the corner of the barn as if it alone could give him the answers he sought. 

“All right.”

The trio glanced between each other and Abe’s back, small, disbelieving smiles spreading slowly across their faces for the second time that night. 

“All right?” Caleb asked uncertainly.

“All right,” Abe confirmed, turning around and striding back to the group. “But this doesn’t happen again,” he pointed at Caleb. “If it does, I’m out. You don’t get to use me and lie to me and expect me to keep on.” 

Caleb wrapped his hand around Abe’s. “It won’t Woody. I swear it. And Ben will too.”

Abe nodded. “Good. Let’s get you the hell out of here,” he said, a small grin appearing. 

Caleb beamed back at him before turning to say a quick goodbye to Anna and Margaret. Stepping between the two, he wrapped an arm around each, holding them tightly as they both returned his embrace. Margaret and Anna’s arms met behind his back; Margaret tentatively placed her hand on Anna’s forearm. After a moment, Anna did the same, squeezing lightly. 

A conversation was surely coming about everything that had taken place in the unusually busy hay barn that night, but for the moment, they understood each other. After all they’d been through together, it would take far more to dissolve their friendship. 

Caleb drew back after a moment, cupping a hand around each woman’s face. “You two take care of each other, yeah?” he smiled at them. 

“We will,” Margaret smiled back.

“We have up ‘til now,” Anna glanced at the shorter woman. “Nothing’s going to change that.” 

Margaret nodded. A promise. Not to Caleb, but to each other.

Caleb gave them both one last smile as he walked backwards to the door, and without another word, he and Abe vanished into the night. 

“Well...” Anna said.

“Indeed,” Margaret agreed. 

“I’m sure if we’re needed, Abe will let us know. We best get a bit of sleep,” Anna said, trying to bridge the awkwardness and ushering Margaret to the door.

Margaret hesitated at the idea, glancing to where she had slept peacefully against a warm, protective smuggler not half an hour before. Her heart felt lighter than it had for weeks. Ben’s plan would work, she _knew_ it would. There were secrets and lies, yes, but there was more. They would see each other through, all five of them. 

Walking to where Anna was waiting with the lantern, Margaret wrapped an arm around her friend’s waist, who draped an arm across her shoulders.

“We’ll talk tomorrow?” Margaret queried as they walked back to the house.

“Tomorrow,” Anna confirmed.

They made their way up the stairs, Margaret glancing around to make sure she wasn’t spotted by someone expecting her to still be shut up in her room. Parting ways with a quiet ‘goodnight’ to Anna on the landing, Margaret slipped out of what clothes she had on and slid into her still-rumpled bed, tucking the covers tight about herself to settle in for a long-anticipated night of rest.

That is, for what little remained of the night.

* * *

An hour later, Margaret woke screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! A quick update:
> 
> Work is really picking up right now, and since I tend to write exceedingly long chapters (as you are all aware by now lol) that take quite a long time to write and even longer to edit, I'm looking at updating every two to three weeks, like this time. 
> 
> In the meantime, you can find me on tumblr @ginfueledmusings. I'll probably start posting sneak peeks a few days before I post a new chapter. 
> 
> (Sidenote: do y'all read/like the quotes I put in the pre-chapter notes? They give a peek into what's going on with the characters in the chapter and I really enjoy them so I'll keep putting them in there no matter, but I was just curious.)
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are extremely appreciated, and feel free to come talk to me on tumblr!
> 
> Enjoy! Gin


	5. Chapter Four: Memory Torn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst unrest in Setauket, Major Hewlett tries to suss out Margaret’s true allegiance. Anna reveals a secret. The strain of Margaret’s grief reaches a breaking point. Caleb discloses the details of his excursion as Ben finds himself unable to reconcile his shame over past decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I simply wondered about the dead because their days had ended and I did not know how I would get through mine.” James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room
> 
> “Let yourself be gutted. Let it open you. Start there.” Cheryl Strayed, Tiny Beautiful Things
> 
> “I am ashamed / of my coward soul, / that won’t seek you / and won’t let you go.” Gabriela Mistral, tr. by Ursula K. Le Guin, Verses

_Chapter Four_

Memory Torn

_November 10th, 1776_

_Strong Manor, Setauket_

Caleb Brewster had, once again, made Margaret’s life infinitely more difficult.

Two days after the excitement-filled night in the hay barn, Margaret was drowsily making her way to her bedchamber following yet another exceedingly busy day when soft chatter from two redcoats in the foyer caught her ear as she stepped onto the second floor landing. She’d quickly learned since moving to the manor to pay the billeted soldiers little mind as they never had useful information and were a general nuisance at best, but a muttered phrase about new assignments had given her pause. Peering over the railing, she saw them by the foot of the stairs, coats slung casually over their arms as they loosened their cravats.

 _Oh honestly, you’re in a common area of a house that ladies live in as well, show a bit more decorum,_ Margaret rolled her eyes.

“...and now _officers_ are taking on sentry duties as well, I’m expected to report to the new post on the main road tomorrow night!” Lieutenant...Pierce? (Margaret didn’t particularly concern herself with their names) griped. 

“Yeah,” the other soldier empathized. “I’m at the docks during the day.”

“At least at the docks you’re in town, right near the tavern. Out on the road past the judge’s house there’s nothing but trees, grass, and more trees,” Possibly-Pierce said sullenly. 

_Sentries on the way out of town near Whitehall._ Margaret’s face scrunched. _A checkpoint on the main road? Here?_

Her forehead smoothed in understanding. _Caleb._

The day after witnessing his daring escape through a window of the tavern, Margaret overheard talk of the floggings of the sentries involved; hearing news from the unwitting soldiers again, she realized Hewlett must have decided to tighten security around the small hamlet. 

_As if_ Setauket _of all places is in immediate danger from a rebel mob_ , she scoffed to herself. 

“Hey, perhaps if you stare down that road long enough, you’ll be able to see York City,” the second officer teased, laughing at whatever facial expression he was given in return as they turned to begin ascending the stairs.

Margaret quickly leaned upright again and tiptoed to her room, gently closing the door with a quiet click. Crossing one arm over her stomach as she pulled her cross from her jacket and worried it between her fingers with the other, she despaired over what this would mean for getting supplies to Smithtown. It did sound as if the soldiers would be standing guard to keep people from coming _in_ , not out, which could mean they would be likely to check any baskets she brought back with her, but with any luck at all they’d let her pass on the way out without a search. 

She nearly laughed aloud at the idea of luck being on her side.

She sighed. _I suppose I’ll find out tomorrow._

The next dawn would bring the second Friday of the month, and Sobel would be waiting for her and her smuggled goods in the far western cove of Smithtown. 

Margaret idly ran the dates through her head as she walked to her dresser, taking pins out of her hair as she went. The past week alone had held enough excitement to fill a year, it wouldn’t be surprising if she had confused her timetable at some point.

“Now let’s see, Margaret,” she said to herself, placing her hairpins next to the mirror atop her dresser and working her fingers through her long mass of curls, “last Friday was the fourth, because Saturday was most assuredly the fifth.” She briefly closed her eyes, suppressing a shudder as flames danced behind her eyelids. “The fourth was obviously the first Friday of the month, hence making tomorrow the second Friday, the el…”

Margaret saw her face grow pale in the mirror. “The eleventh.” Her fingers resting on the dresser curled themselves into a fist. “Which would make today the tenth.” She pushed herself away from the horrified expression reflected back at her. “Oh God.”

The room spun around her. “Oh _God._ ”

Her chest heaved as her legs refused to support her and she fell to her knees. “No. No no no n—” she pressed the palms of her hands against her forehead.

The day had gone by uneventfully, all things considered. Between Caleb’s escape and Hewlett’s insane demands for the gravestones, unrest and agitation rippled through town, resounding in the tense silences and incensed glares exchanged in every corner. Even the tavern that evening had been uncommonly quiet, the redcoats staying firmly sequestered in the second room as heated whispers resounded through the townsfolk in the first. Margaret had decided the best course of action was to keep her head down and turn herself invisible in the hopes her brother’s stone would be overlooked in the excitement, despite being the most recent addition to the churchyard, and the stone of a condemned patriot at that.

_How could I have not realized?_

“I’m sorry. Oh _God_ , I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” she whispered to no one and everyone, wrapping her arms around her stomach and rocking slightly as dry sobs wracked her body.

_I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe, I can’t—_

“I can’t breathe.”

Margaret’s sobs turned into hacking coughs as she fought for air through the shame crowding her throat. Trembling fingers desperately pulled at the pins holding her jacket closed, ripping them out and scattering them across the floor into unknown crevices. _I can’t breathe._ She pulled her kerchief off, yanking at her jacket as it stubbornly caught on her shoulders until she was freed of it and nearly tore more than one petticoat while relieving herself of them, finally reaching the root of her constriction by tugging at the laces of her stays until they were loose enough to pull over her head and violently throw on the floor as she took large gasps of air.

_How could I have not realized?_

She kicked her shoes off as she stumbled to her bed, curling up in the middle of it in her shift, stockings, and underpetticoat. She didn’t bother to draw the quilt back first as she pulled her shaking limbs tightly into herself. She stared sightlessly at the sky out her window.

She remained there the rest of the night, drifting in and out of consciousness.

_I’m sorry._

No matter how she sought them, no tears came.

* * *

Margaret woke the next morning with stiff limbs, freezing hands and feet, and an aching head.

She steeled herself for all her day would entail as she readied for the day, having come to the realization of what must be done upon dousing her face in uncomfortably cold water from her basin. She rushed down the stairs after putting on the last of her rumpled clothing and attempting to pin her tangled hair into a manageable knot, just about making it out the door when Anna’s voice rang out behind her, the woman in question descending the stairs in a far more respectable fashion.

“Margaret! Where are you headed off to in such a hurry, you’ve a few hours yet ‘til you usually leave for Smithtown,” she questioned with a genial smile.

Margaret’s shoulders tightened as she slowly turned around, tying her cloak around her neck. She had hoped to leave the house undetected in her particularly unsociable mood, but it seemed as though Anna had other plans.

“I just...wanted to make a few stops about town before fetching the wagon,” she said vaguely, resting her hip against the side of the door and attempting to smile convincingly. 

Anna raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the cryptic response as she stopped on the landing. “A few stops? Such as...?”

“Why so curious?” Margaret challenged impudently with a raise of her own eyebrow, in no mood to have her actions questioned when all she desired was to get on with what was sure to be a miserable day.

Sweeping her eyes over the entry way, Anna lowered her voice. “There’s bound to be plenty of unrest about town today,” she hissed, crossing her arms. “I just want to be sure you’re keeping out of trouble until you leave.” 

Margaret blankly held Anna’s stare for a moment until the other woman widened her eyes and tilted her head with a pointed look, as she was wont to do. Margaret let out an audible sigh as she closed the door in defeat, meeting Anna halfway as she stepped off the landing. 

“I’m going to the churchyard,” Margaret mumbled reluctantly, folding her arms protectively across her stomach and avoiding Anna’s concerned gaze. “I haven’t — I haven’t been since...you know, since Austin…” she stumbled over her words, unable to admit her shame. 

“You haven’t been?” Anna asked, surprise coloring her features.

Margaret shook her head, face crumpled in guilt that sat heavily on her chest. “It’s just been too...too much. I couldn’t stomach seeing his grave after the funeral,” she whispered. “And time’s passed so quickly that until all the talk of the gravestones these past days, I didn’t even realize I hadn’t gone at all, and then yesterday…” she trailed off, her voice cracking.

“Yesterday was two months since his death,” Anna realized, sympathy dawning on her face. “Oh Meg, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“Neither did I!” Margaret choked out disgustedly. “With everything going on — moving and working, with Sim—” she cut herself off, moving closer to Anna as her eyes darted to the various doorways surrounding them. “With Simcoe, and...and your laundry,” she hissed, “and Caleb — which, by the way, has become another problem — I didn’t even _notice_ the date.” 

_Of course, offer your excuses — as if they could be justification for what you’ve done_ , her mind taunted.

Anna held up a placating hand. “Slow down, Margaret, please. Breathe. You’re scared, you look absolutely exhausted…” she cocked her head. “Have your nightmares stopped?”

After inadvertently awakening both herself and Anna with her screams as the first beams of dawn found their way through her window following their departure from the barn a few nights previous, Margaret had been forced to confess her new nightly routine, though she kept the source of her nightmares tucked close, refusing to worry her friend over meaningless visions of terrible fates.

Margaret shook her head. “No. Not really. Perhaps this is retribution from God,” she let out a watery, self-deprecating laugh, only partially joking.

“Margaret!”

“It’s true,” she insisted, closing her eyes against the first bitter tears of self-hatred she could no longer swallow. “What kind of person must I be to forget the anniversary of my brother’s death — which was only two _months_ ago.” 

“Peggy—”

Margaret flinched at the nickname.

“I—I’m sorry. Meg…” Anna murmured in concern, moving slowly towards Margaret as if she were a wounded animal. She held out an hand, reaching towards her. “There’s been an extraordinary amount of change for us in the past few weeks, it’s understandable that you—”

“No,” Margaret interrupted, backing away from Anna’s arms and compassion. “It’s not, I—” she wiped her cheeks as she reached the door. “I can’t...I just—Anna…I can’t.” She pulled the handle and bolted from the house, the door slamming shut behind her on Anna’s crestfallen face.

* * *

Margaret’s feet took off on their own accord, skirting past the path that would lead her through town and instead cutting across the open expanse of grass that surrounded the center square of Setauket. Taking deep breaths of crisp morning air as she walked, she managed to compose herself on the way to the familiar church. _Garrison_ , she mentally corrected with a sneer as the commandeered white building came into sight, and she realized she would need to steel herself far beyond mere composure. Dozens of redcoats swarmed the churchyard like hornets around a hive: angry, defensive, and ready to sting any intruders. 

As she joined the main path a short distance from the church, Margaret paused in her step upon noticing strange divots in the ground to her left, her brow creasing in confusion. They were rather small, three in total in a straight line. Glancing between the divots, the church, and back towards town, she stumbled backwards as the world grew hazy in front of her eyes and she suddenly saw herself running up the hill and pushing through a large crowd.

 _The gallows_.

_**She spotted Austin and ran towards him, ignoring the cocking of the muskets until a familiar arm wrapped around her waist and Selah was there again, holding her to himself, holding her back, his deep voice in her ear telling her to stop even as she strained and struggled against him.** _

_If it weren’t for Selah…I could be dead_.

The specter of the gallows faded as her vision cleared and she was staring once more at small holes in the ground. She remembered learning once she emerged from her voluntary confinement that Hewlett had ordered the structure dismantled a week after the hangings. “A show of good faith,” he had called it.

Margaret turned once more to the path set before her and swallowed the lump in her throat, setting her shoulders and putting on the most innocent and unassuming face she could manage before striding forward with purpose towards the opening in the newly created defenses. She wasn’t quite able to reach the freshly turned over earth before she was stopped by Ensign...Baker? Morrison? Whichever. Though he didn’t go so far as to draw his weapon, he stood on guard and held up a hand as he called out for her to halt, asking her purpose there.

“I’m here to pay my respects to my family’s graves, I mean no harm,” she replied serenely, gesturing towards the graveyard and holding her ground.

The young soldier relaxed his stance and took a few steps towards her. “Your family?” he asked tentatively. 

She nodded, lowering her hand and stepping towards him as well. “My parents and...and my brother.”

Her heart clenched at the look on his face. The lad had to be close to her own age of twenty-two, at least not much more than a couple of years younger (though certainly _much_ taller, she had to crane her neck to look him in the eye), but in that moment he appeared to her as no more than a mere boy. She felt empathy swell for him, and a surprising anger at whatever tragedy he had experienced for the memory to cause such pain on his face. 

“I’m…I am sorry to hear it. And I apologize for stopping you,” he said sincerely, “we have just had to be, well, cautious with, uh...with all the excitement,” he stuttered out, a light blush coloring his cheeks as Margaret smiled softly at him.

“I understand.” 

“But continue on, please,” he returned her smile. “I’ll ensure you aren’t bothered.”

Her smile widened genuinely, a bit ashamed of her surprise at finding as sweet a man as he in red. The lad’s simple kindness caused Margaret to then come to the strange understanding one must confront when faced with the utter humanity of one’s sworn enemy.

“I thank you for your kindness, Ensign…?”

“Ensign Baker!” 

_So it is Baker after all._ Margaret peered around the Ensign as he snapped to attention and turned to see the owner of the unfamiliar voice coming towards them.

Major Hewlett strode out the double doors of the church towards them.

Margaret’s blood ran cold.

 _ **Five ropes. One bench. One scaffold**_. 

She forced herself to maintain an innocuous expression in the face of one of the only men she had ever truly hated. Simcoe was the one to place Austin in the noose, yes, but Hewlett gave the order. 

She distractedly thought that perhaps today wasn’t the best day to try smuggling goods past the new guards. Luck certainly hadn’t been on her side yet.

“Ensign Baker, stand down at once,” Hewlett ordered, not realizing the friendly turn the conversation had taken. Turning to Margaret, his face relaxed considerably. “Miss Roe, is it?” he inquired affably.

She inclined her head in assent.

“Miss Roe, I saw you indicate towards the cemetery, do you intend to visit a loved one’s stone?”

“You have the right of it, Major Hewlett,” she said mildly, her fingers twisting tightly into her cloak.

“Ensign Baker,” Hewlett said sharply, turning back to the now noticeably nervous man, “we are not to prevent the townsfolk from paying their respects to their dead, no matter the unrest we are facing. After the incident at the docks, you are finding yourself on increasingly shaky ground—”

“Please Major,” Margaret interrupted, realizing Hewlett was referring to Caleb’s escape and her stomach turning at the thought of the kind lad getting into more trouble — such as receiving another lashing — on her account. “Please, Ensign Baker was kindly allowing me on my way, he was only asking after my intentions here.” 

“Ah,” the major said shortly, nodding to Baker, who appeared visibly relieved at Margaret’s intervention. “Well then, on your way, Baker, I’ll see Miss Roe safely to her destination.” He offered a smile to Margaret, which did nothing to improve the stability of her stomach. 

After returning Baker’s nod as he turned to go back to his post, Margaret was startled to see Major Hewlett holding his arm out for her. 

_Dear God, he actually means to see me to my family’s stones._

Swallowing hard and suppressing a shiver, Margaret took the major’s arm with a gracious smile.

“Where are you headed, Miss Roe?”

Margaret pointed in the general direction of her family’s stones, far off to the right. As the two began walking, Hewlett scarcely wasted a moment before speaking.

“While I certainly do not wish to pry, Miss Roe, I can’t help but notice I have not seen you quite often these past months.” 

Margaret allowed herself a small raise of her eyebrows, curious as to where this was leading.

“Of course, I am most always here at the garrison, and so my view is often limited to the churchyard, but still,” he prodded, surely thinking himself skillful in his approach. 

So that was his true intention in intercepting Margaret’s advance. He was trying to suss out her true character — her true allegiance. What he surely meant was that he hadn’t observed her visiting her patriot brother’s grave since her hysterics the day of the hangings. 

Margaret hesitated. Obviously the truth was not an option, but was she truly capable of making him believe a bold-faced lie? This could be her sole chance to rid herself of any suspicion of patriotism — thus ensuring a cover for herself during any intelligence activities — and potentially secure favor with Hewlett as well. If she started down this road, however, there would be no going back. She would need to play her part perfectly, every waking moment from this day on. 

If she erred, she would not be given another opportunity.

If she erred, the consequence would be unthinkable.

“Yes, Major Hewlett, I…I understand what you are asking. I’m afraid it was simply too painful for me to come here,” Margaret began hesitantly. “You see, I loved my brother dearly, and I mourn him, as any good sister would — especially as he was the last of my family left to me. But…” she trailed off, purposely averting her gaze.

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

“But?” Hewlett prompted, curiosity clearly piqued.

 _Decide_.

“But I do not share his ideologies, I never have,” she said, looking at the major with wide eyes. “It has been...difficult for me to reconcile my love for him and grief over his death with the clear understanding that the insurrection he exercised was wrong. Therefore, I have been unable to bring myself to visit him as I should,” she finished, stomach churning ever more fiercely, the words tasting of ashes in her mouth.

She saw a small, pleased smile on the major’s face that he tried to hide; he patted her hand on his arm as they approached their destination and slowed. “Your loyalty to your King is admirable, Miss Roe, as is your devotion as a sister. Though I can never fully grasp your anguish, having never been confronted with such a situation, if there is ever any way I can assist you — with anything you may require — you need only ask,” he smiled at her magnanimously, likely relieved to find another Tory he could easily subjugate. 

“Thank you, Major,” Margaret smiled. “You are most kind.” She waited, expecting him to bring up the subject of the gravestones, perhaps even ask her to give her brother’s up, but was instead met with a small bow and a wish for a pleasant day before the major turned and walked away. 

Perplexed, she chose not to dwell on it, guessing that he assumed he’d be getting Austin’s stone no matter what she said and so saw no point in pressing further. 

Swallowing the bile rising in her throat at the sight of all three names of the only family she’d ever known carved unforgivingly on stones next to each other, Margaret knelt between her mother’s and Austin’s markers, avoiding the still-fresh earth. She had not approached the cemetery since seeing to the placement of Austin’s stone a week after the interment of his body — her choice of an immediate funeral had given no time for a stone to be prepared. Even then, she had waited while the men worked the stone into the ground and left immediately without fully paying her respects. She hadn’t been ready.

Now, however...she had no choice. Her brother’s stone would be gone the next morning, of that she was sure. There was not a comprehensible depth to her regret in denying herself proper mourning before the opportunity was taken from her. She had refused to allow herself grief when she had been too consumed by anger — at the war, at Simcoe and Hewlett, at Ben and Anna, and even at Austin for the reckless actions he took knowing full well what the consequence could be. 

As Margaret turned to face her brother’s grave marker, something deep inside her shifted. Something strong and impenetrable that had grown deeper and more protective with each heartbreak. Something that began to crack with Abe’s news of a certain cavalryman, and reluctantly weakened with each moment of love and compassion she experienced since.

Something that finally broke.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, running her fingers over the engraving of the horribly familiar name. “I’m so, so sorry.” 

There was little else to be said. Perhaps someday she would return to pour out every word she had foolishly left unsaid when there weren’t a dozen redcoats milling about, but for now she knew they could hear all that was spoken silently. 

She leaned forward, resting her forehead against the cool stone that was no replacement for the warmth of her brother’s arms. 

“Please forgive me,” she whispered, not allowing her words to be carried on the wind. “Please understand what I have to do, and please, _please_ forgive me.” 

Margaret was oblivious to the passage of time as she remained on the ground, allowing herself to release every emotion she had carelessly shoved into the deep recesses of her heart.

When she finally came back to herself, the early morning dew had soaked through her skirts to her shift and the sun was noticeably higher behind the usual November clouds. Leaning forward, she placed a gentle kiss on the stone. She stood and moved to the other two stones, kneeling and pressing a kiss to each as well, before straightening fully and wiping her cheeks clean. Feeling eyes on her, she looked up to see Baker watching her, that same mournful expression on his face. He noticed her staring back at him and straightened, giving her a nod that she returned with a small, tight smile.

Margaret gave her family one last look. “I miss you,” she whispered. “I love you all.”

She turned around, and walked away. 

* * *

As she trundled up the path around the manor with her borrowed horse and wagon, Margaret could see Anna descending the back stairs. 

A few weeks into undertaking her laundry and mending business, Margaret found there simply weren’t enough people in Setauket in need of her services who were also inclined to give her business considering her family’s political leanings, and in order to operate a sustainable business she would need to travel in hopes of finding patrons in a nearby community. First, however, she would need a means of travel, having never owned a horse and certainly not having the resources to purchase one. In a brief insightful moment that was becoming frighteningly rare, Austin suggested a visit to an old couple their parents had been friendly with, the Campbells. Having had no children, Mr. and Mrs. Campbell employed a woman from town and her son to act as part-time housekeeper and stable boy respectively, but otherwise lived alone and rarely left, hardly using their small wagon. When Margaret approached them with the idea of borrowing the wagon and horse once a week to carry out her business, offering to pay them once she started making some money, they instead insisted she use it whenever she liked, claiming the old horse needed some excitement.

From then on Margaret would stop by the Campbell house weekly to hitch up Jenny, the crotchety old mare, to the wagon just large enough to not be called a cart; then she would load her baskets of laundry (and the occasional hard goods) into the wagon and be on her way. Following her move to the manor, she continued to keep her cache of supplies to smuggle hidden in her old home, and the second Friday of every month she would discreetly stop by the house, which was close to the Campbell’s, to pick up the goods disguised as laundry, then collect the true laundry from the manor before leaving. Though Anna had offered the Strong’s horse and wagon more than once, Margaret felt taking the wagon all the way to her house once a month and loading baskets in the back could be a touch more conspicuous than she would like.

Pulling Jenny up directly in front of the steps, Margaret quickly secured the reins and climbed down from the seat to intercept the other woman who was undoubtedly on her way to the tavern. 

“Anna!”

“Meg!” Anna called in return, appearing surprised at her friend’s change in demeanor.

Before saying another word, Margaret strode forward and threw her arms around Anna’s neck, holding her tightly. She thought perhaps finally seeing her brother’s stone alongside her father and mother’s had forced her to accept Austin’s death in a way she hadn’t before, delivering the final blow to the hard shell constructed around her heart. The rawness of it ached, though in a fitting way — not unlike a festering wound cut open so it may heal.

“I’m sorry,” Margaret mumbled, the words muffled in her own arm. She felt Anna shake her head with the beginnings of a protest but refused to accept it. “No, Anna. I’m sorry for my behavior earlier, I should never have taken my grief and…and bitterness out on you.” 

After a brief pause, she could feel Anna smile softly into her shoulder and tighten her arms about her waist. 

“What are friends for?” 

Margaret pulled back. “Not that. Next time, if you can stop me from making it out the front door, just tell me what an arse I’m being,” she laughed, smile fading as she noticed Anna’s face falling. “What?” 

“Margaret,” Anna started with a frown, “you weren’t being an arse. You’re hurt. You’re grieving—”

“Anna,” Margaret interrupted, shifting uncomfortably away from her.

“You’re scared,” Anna continued without pause. “I am too, I know how unbearable it is to be scared constantly, with no end in sight. Along with everything else, I can only imagine what you’ve been going through.”

“Anna.”

“But you live as if you are haunted by your regrets and decisions, going about with this...this utter disregard for yourself—”

“Anna!” Margaret snapped, finally startling her into silence. She had no intention of allowing Anna to continue her thorough disassembly and assessment of Margaret’s life, though she got the distinct impression from her friend’s slightly guilty expression that once she began talking she couldn’t stop.

Margaret closed her eyes. “I’m trying. I swear to you, I am. But it was all...too soon. And then it was too much... Everything, all of it — grieving and recovering and...and healing, it’s all...it’s too much,” she whispered. “Or...it was. Perhaps it’s not anymore, I just…”

“I know.” Anna told her softly, taking her hands. “I know it’s too much. I’ll be here until it’s not.” 

Margaret jerked her chin down in a nod with a tight smile, opening her eyes. There would be no more tears today. “Well,” she said briskly, shifting the conversation, “I best start loading the wagon if I plan to be in Smithtown by midafternoon. That is, if I make it that far,” she scoffed, moving to the back of the wagon to pick up the special bundle she had collected from her home in addition to the baskets. 

She hugged the bundle tightly to her chest as Anna followed her back into the house, pausing alongside her as Margaret spotted Miriam, one of the kitchen servants, heading up the stairs.

“Miriam! Since you’re going upstairs, would you mind putting this in my room?” Margaret asked, handing over the package at Miriam’s nod. “Thank you.”

The two friends continued side by side down the hall towards the kitchen, where Margaret stored her baskets of clothes once they were cleaned.

“You said something about Caleb and a problem earlier,” Anna murmured, her voice low so as to not be overheard. “What were you referring to?”

Margaret peered around the currently empty kitchen as she placed one large basket on her hip, Anna taking the other. “Hewlett’s been increasing security ever since Caleb’s escape. This morning I heard there are now sentries on the way into town.” 

Anna frowned as they made their way back to the wagon. “ _Into_ town? I don’t why they would have reason to stop you on the way out. You should be safe then, shouldn’t you?”

“Hopefully. If I am not, I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

Anna scowled at her. “Don’t joke like that. I worry about you going off on your own all the time.”

Margaret gave her a fond smile. “Don’t fret, mother,” she teased, “it’s scarcely more than an hour away, and I travel on the main road. Nothing terrible will befall me on the way to or from Smithtown.” She sighed as they heaved the heavy baskets over the side of the wagon, Jenny stamping her foot impatiently. “You know, with Caleb being here and escaping, and now the sentries…I feel as though...I don’t know,” she shook her head as if it could clear her thoughts. “I have this feeling as though that one night will end up having harsher consequences than we could have foreseen.”

Anna snorted. “For us all.”

It was Margaret’s turn to frown as she leaned her side against the wagon, facing her friend. “What do you mean?” Anna’s face as she returned to the barn that lively night but a few days ago appeared in her mind, a deflected question once again forming on her tongue. “What happened at the docks?”

Anna looked at her in surprise before letting out a rueful laugh. “You always were too perceptive for your own good.”

“So I’ve come to realize,” Margaret deadpanned. “What happened?” she asked in a much softer tone.

“I saw Mary,” Anna sighed.

“Mary Woodhull?” Margaret was surprised, to say the least.

Anna nodded. “Yes, it seems she came to the tavern just to confront me. She accused me of having an affair with Abraham.”

Though shocked at Mary’s forwardness, it was the last part of Anna’s confession that gave Margaret pause. She bit her lip.

“...are you?”

“No!” Anna exclaimed. “No,” she amended quietly, glancing about. “And I told her that in no uncertain terms. Also that I have not entertained such feelings for Abraham in quite some time now.”

Margaret raised an eyebrow and stared knowingly at Anna until the taller woman looked away. “You can lie to Mary Woodhull, Anna Strong, but you can’t lie to me.” 

A blush rose on her cheeks. “I know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“At the time, Caleb was there and he would’ve made something of it, then afterwards…I suppose I didn’t want to bother you,” Anna shrugged, “it seemed rather trivial compared to, well…everything.”

“But it bothered _you_?” Margaret’s question was more of a statement. 

“I...yes,” Anna admitted. 

“You know, I’m not the only one who is allowed to unload all my burdens on my poor housemate,” Margaret said, giving her a soft smile.

“I’ll remember that,” Anna grinned. 

“Now, I do have more to tell you, but we both should be on our way,” Margaret straightened and moved to board the wagon again. When Jenny turned her head back to look at her climbing into the seat, Margaret could’ve sworn the mare gave her a dirty look. “When I return, I’ll wait up for you to get back from the tavern,” she looked down at Anna, who nodded.

“I’ll see you then.”

* * *

_Continental Flying Camp, Pennsylvania_

“I just hope Washington reads it.”

“What else he got to do?” Caleb chuckled sardonically as he and Ben wandered through the bustling flying camp. 

A single smuggled report that not only provided vital information, but could change everything, put the intelligence network into play. That is, _if_ the report made it to Washington, _if_ his aides read it, _if_ it was passed on, _if_ it was taken seriously, and _if_ it was intriguing enough to be traced back to Scott, and consequently Ben.

 _If, if, **if**_.

Ben sighed as he ducked into his tent — there were just too many variables to be able to tell what would happen next. He sat at his small desk to dig into the endless mound of paperwork that was now his responsibility, taking no notice of Caleb’s movements as he would surely sit for a spell, predictably interrupting Ben’s work, or leave to do...whatever questionable activities Caleb filled his spare time with.

Checking the sharpness of his quill, Ben looked up in surprise as the tent noticeably darkened; glancing to the side, he saw Caleb closing the tent flaps that had been letting in the hazy, late-afternoon light before moving to perch at the end of Ben’s cot. Frowning at him, Ben lit the candle on his desk and opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but Caleb beat him to it.

“Now that that’s taken care of, I bring more news of Setauket,” the smuggler began.

Ben raised his eyebrows. It couldn’t be anything disastrous, as he doubted Caleb would have waited to tell him. 

“Primarily,” Caleb added emphatically, “about your Miss Margaret.”

Ben's heart leapt as he turned in his chair to face his friend more fully. Disaster or no, paperwork was certainly no longer his priority. “What did Abe tell you?” 

Caleb hesitated, looking at his hands clasped in his lap. “It weren’t so much Abe as...Meg herself.”

“You _saw_ her?” Ben blurted out, rising from his chair. He had to pace. If his heart had leapt against his ribs before, it positively had to be in his throat then. “What were you thinking, do you have any idea the kind danger you’ve put her in?” he demanded, his mind already turning over every terrible possibility with each step. “Did anyone see you? Where were—”

“Ben, enough!” Caleb exclaimed, jumping into Ben’s path and stopping his movement with a hand on his chest. “I saw Annie too, I had to hide out in her barn to get to Abe. Meg spotted me hanging the signal and thought I was Woody.” 

Ben took a step back. “She knows then? She knows about...everything.” Ben’s heart remained firmly lodged in his throat even as his stomach sank to the floor (he could only hope his organs returned to their proper places soon). 

“Yeah,” Caleb sighed. “She knows, and she’s not happy about us keeping her out of it, either. And trust me, she’s got quite the arm on her when she’s upset,” he grumbled, rubbing a hand on his left cheek.

“Trust me, I know,” Ben scoffed, a small smirk forming as the memory of a younger and far more brazen version of himself rose in his mind. He had offered some highly inappropriate suggestions to the woman in question as they sat entangled in the shade of their favorite tree, the hand he had left resting on her ankle slowly climbing up her leg. Of course, he had been immediately met with a sharp blow to the face and a threat of her leaving him where he sat and remaining absent from his life until his next visit from Connecticut.

“Yeah?” Caleb smirked.

“I—never mind,” Ben determinedly turned his head from Caleb’s knowing look, not wishing to entirely disrupt the conversation. “Look, there was no place to include her in the plan,” he rationalized, putting a hand on his hip and passing the other over his face. “I wasn’t about to send her out on an intelligence gathering mission.” He felt sick at the very idea. “Besides, the less she knows, the safer she is.”

“ _I_ know that, but that’s not how _she_ sees it. Besides, how long did you expect her to stay in the dark? You didn’t think Anna or Woody would tell her first chance they got?” 

Ben looked down, shrugging non-committally as he avoided admitting his slight oversight. He furrowed his brow as his overworked mind caught up with Caleb’s words. “You said she saw you put up the signal? Simcoe wasn’t lying,” he realized. 

“Yeah. I thought of that too. She’s living with Anna now; which made me think our friendly lobster wasn’t blowing smoke about much of anything, so I asked about Austin, too — discreetly,” he added, holding up a hand as Ben opened his mouth to ask that very question. “She doesn’t know she…” Caleb fidgeted with the buttons on his coat. “Well that she…y’know, might be a target. Eventually.”

Ben’s jaw tightened.

“But anyways, when I asked, she said Austin ran into some trouble with the redcoats when they came to town, but it’s all over now.” 

“Thank God,” Ben murmured, running a hand over his lips. He was genuinely glad for Margaret and Austin, of course, but he recognized the relief flowing through him was also for his own sake. _One less thing to worry about_. 

“Other than that, how is she?” Ben asked tentatively, desperate for word of the woman he hadn’t seen in nearly six months but terrified of what news he would receive. So much had happened in that time—so much _time_ had happened.

He had no right to Margaret’s life.

But he had to know.

Fear crept into his heart again as Caleb paused, seemingly looking for the right words.

“She’s all right,” he quickly disclosed at the expression on Ben’s face. “I think she’s...she’s having a bit of a rough go of it at the moment.”

Ben nodded, unsurprised. Heat pricked at his eyes as his best known friend resurfaced and shame tore through his chest at the memory of the chaos he left Margaret to handle on her own.

“Ben?”

Caleb’s concerned voice cut through his thoughts as he roughly scrubbed at his eyes.

“Christ, Caleb, how could I do that?” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “She had just lost her parents – I knew what she was going through, and I knew the war had to hit the Island sooner rather than later, but when the commission was offered, I...” Ben sighed, a fragment of his soul-deep pain escaping through his breath. “You know, over a year ago I _convinced_ Nathan to join up, while I just sat in my schoolhouse, the war encircling me and drawing ever closer. When the commission was offered, it felt like a sign that I couldn’t sit by and do nothing anymore, but I—” he shook his head. “There had to be another way. How could I just…leave?”

“I don't know, Bennyboy.”

Ben looked at Caleb in surprise at his uncharacteristic lack of comfort or reassurance but was grateful for his honesty all the same. He placed his hands on the back of his chair, leaning forward on it. 

“I was there in May. Home.” 

“Mm.”

“I couldn’t get away for either of her parents’ burials, but I managed to surprise her for her birthday,” he smiled softly at the memory. “We hadn’t seen each other in almost a year. When she walked into the room…” Ben trailed off, lost in his reminiscence.

“Go on, then, what was it like when she walked in the room?” Caleb prodded with a grin. “Don’t worry,” he stage-whispered, “I won’t tell the lads out there what a lovesick fool you are.”

Ben felt his cheeks heat at the good-natured teasing but took the invitation to continue nonetheless. The tent faded around him as the memory grew stronger and he could nearly see Margaret in front of him, almost as if looking at her through the mist that rolled off the Sound in the gray hours of early morning. “When she walked into the room, I could breathe again. It was like...like the first true day of spring back home after a harsh winter. You know, when you walk outside, and even though it’s been getting warmer for weeks, the air is different? The sun seems brighter, the sky bluer, simply because all you’ve known for…for too long is the coldness, the _bleakness_ of a world without spring.” 

“You are absolutely besotted,” Caleb chuckled.

Ben ducked his head with an embarrassed smile. “Yes.” His grin faded as the memory continued. “She looked...tired. More tired than I’d ever seen her. Unsurprisingly, of course,” he quickly added. “She had lost both her parents one right after the other only three months before, and Austin was...different.”

Ben recalled the shadow of the man he had grown up around; the man he had looked up to as Austin and Samuel got into endless trouble together. He remembered looking into the lifeless eyes of the man who once could manage to bring a smile even to the stoic face of Selah Strong. 

“Meg told me about that,” Caleb chimed in gravely. “That after losing their folks and the smithy, he…lost himself.” 

Ben nodded. “She was alone, doing everything in her power to keep them both alive after Austin just…just gave up. And I left her anyways,” he spat, shoving off the chair. 

“Hey,” Caleb laid a mollifying hand on his arm. “You haven’t left her for good, yeah?” 

“Of course not.” Ben didn’t dare fathom the very idea. A life without Margaret…without her dry humor, her teasing, her spirit to lighten his heart out of melancholy, without her ardor and fierce protectiveness to warm him and match his passion; a life without her wisdom and strength to guide him when he felt lost…

It was not a life he wished to contemplate.

 _Christ, I miss you_.

“Well then, someday you’ll be able to make it up to her.” 

“I suppose,” he sighed. “You said she wasn’t doing well?”

Caleb nodded. “She told me she hasn’t been sleeping, been having too many nightmares.”

Ben huffed out a breath in empathy as he paced a bit more, Caleb stepping out of his way. “She isn’t the only one.”

“That’s what I told her. She’ll be fine, Tallboy. She may well be stronger than the rest of us put together.” 

Ben half-smiled, pride swelling at Caleb’s assessment. “I don’t doubt it.”

Standing next to his cot, Ben saw Caleb pause by the desk to take off his hat and scratch his head. 

“There’s something else.”

Ben raised an eyebrow. “About Margaret?”

He didn’t know if his nerves could take much more in one sitting. 

“Er...yeah,” Caleb hedged, not meeting his eyes. “And you may wanna sit down for this.”

Ben looked at him in disbelief, not moving a muscle.

“I, uh...I have a friend by the name of Sobel in the London Trade—"

“And this has to do with Margaret?” Ben interrupted.

“Yeah,” Caleb nodded slowly.

Ben sank down on the edge of his cot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. This chapter (and the next) were the hardest by far to get done, including what's been posted and future chapters that I've already written. This one and chapter five were actually originally one chapter, and it took me waaaay too long to decide that it was an absurd length that needed to be split up, and then I ended up adding a new scene and fixing a bunch of stuff and I'm still not super happy with it, but oh well it's here. These two chapters took me *weeks* to write and edit, I went through about six different versions, there were entire scenes that got cut, replaced, or changed so much they're unrecognizable from the first draft...I'm glad it's up now and I can move on.  
> Good news is that since ch 5 was originally part of this chapter, almost all the editing is done, so we'll have a quick update turnaround and I'm planning on posting it Sunday or Monday!  
> That being said, I've updated the chapter count to reflect the changes I've made to my story outline.  
> As always, comments are loved and appreciated!!  
> Enjoy! -Gin


	6. Chapter Five: Better Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abraham gives the agents a thread of hope as Setauket bands together against the British. Abigail inadvertently brings revelations through an act of compassion. A risky plan yields a surprising ally. Margaret starts to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Why wasn’t friendship as good as a relationship? Why wasn’t it even better? It was two people who remained together, day after day, bound [...] only by the shared agreement to keep going.” Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life
> 
> “so i dreamed and i dreamed / and i endured.” Lucille Clifton, Next: the death of crazy horse
> 
> “I wait and ache. I think I am healing.” Sylvia Plath, Three Women
> 
> “If you don’t like the way the world is, you change it. You have an obligation to change it. You just do it one step at a time.” Marian Wright Edelman

_Chapter Five_

Better Angels

_November 11th, 1776_

_Road to Smithtown, Long Island_

_“Here I sit on Buttermilk hill, who can blame me cry my fill? And every tear would turn a mill, Johnny has gone for a soldier…”_

Margaret enjoyed her weekly trips to Smithtown.

For one, traveling on the road every week was one of the few occasions since moving to the Strong Estate she allowed herself to truly sing. She often found it impossible to keep herself from idly humming any tune that happened to pop into her head while working on laundry, mending, and even sometimes in the tavern, but unlike when she was living only with her family or alone, she was far too self-conscious to permit the words to flow freely from her mouth around others.

_“…shule, shule, and he loves me. When he comes back we’ll married be—”_

Margaret sighed. She had loved to sing since she was a young child, undoubtedly influenced by her mother’s soaring, clear soprano voice filling their house on any given day of her childhood. Growing up, Margaret always possessed one of the loudest voices in church (even when she wasn’t entirely confident with the melody) and learned scores of songs and hymns from her mother while they did housework.

Margaret had always enjoyed to sing, but that particular song may have been a poor choice on her part.

_“Me oh my, I loved him so, broke my heart to see him go; and only time will heal my woe, Johnny has gone for a soldier…”_

On her way out of Setauket, luck had unexpectedly turned to her side when she and one of the sentries stationed on the road past Whitehall recognized each other — the very same who’d unwittingly given her warning of the new post ( _Pierce?_ ), and, being at least slightly acquainted with her usual comings and goings around Strong Manor, asked if she was making her weekly laundry trip. Upon her confirmation and assurance that she’d be back before dark, she was sent on her way with a warning to be careful and stay alert on the roads without so much as a glance into the baskets in the wagon bed. 

_“I'll dye my dress, I’ll dye it red, and through the streets I'll beg my bread; for the lad I love from me has fled—”_

She closed her mouth abruptly, shaking her head. Perhaps this trip was meant to be passed in silence, after all.

The journey truly was something Margaret savored — especially since moving into a bustling house — as someone who enjoyed solitude in moderation, having always been plagued by uncertainty and a fair amount of shyness around people she was unfamiliar with, often feeling awkward and out of place. (However, she was not so proud as to deny that a few particular weeks in September and October tested her proclivity for seclusion.) The weekly voyage allowed time for song, yes, but also time for any particular problems she wished to mull over in solitude, or simply breathing in the peace of the woods, listening to the birdsong and crunch of leaves under the wagon wheels. It seemed as though just one week had stripped the late autumn trees of their brilliantly colored canopy, leaving naked, spindly branches crisscrossing the cloudy sky with a thick carpet of their hard work of the past seasons littering the ground as far as the eye could see.

Arriving in town, Margaret carried out her weekly routine of dropping off bundles for the two men to whom they belonged and receiving bundles from two more men to wash, iron, mend, and return the following Friday. During her first weeks of expanding her business to the neighboring town, she had foolishly thought to take all the laundry at once and promise it returned in a week, but quickly discovered that to do five (nine, including those from Setauket) men’s laundry in one week with no help was impossible when included with cooking, cleaning, mending, and the general upkeep of the house and her brother. Therefore, she had established a pattern of doing the laundry for two men each week. Though her process was now sped up considerably through experience, her weekly laundry ordeal was a sight to behold, stretching from Sunday night to Wednesday afternoon — or whenever the clothes had dried enough to be ironed — with breaks in the evenings to work in the tavern, and time to tend to the mending while clothes soaked or dried. 

Following the exchange of fresh bundles for significantly more noxious ones, Margaret discreetly continued towards the coast, taking the wagon as far outland as she could and — after tying Jenny to a tree — walking the rest of the way with her heavy baskets in hand, whistling out the bird call signal Sobel had taught her months before. Upon hearing the return whistle, Margaret continued forward, Sobel meeting her a short distance from his boat to take one of the laden baskets from her.

“Mr. Sobel!”

“Miss Roe!”

Their usual greeting taken care of, Margaret smiled, thanking him for the lightening of her load. Though she had retained a healthy skepticism of him and his intentions for some time after their initial encounter, over the months she had grown genuinely fond of the man.

“So,” Margaret began casually as they trekked the rest of the way to his boat. “Were you followed?” Best to get it over with.

Sobel stumbled slightly. “What?”

“Were you followed?” she repeated. “Across the Sound?”

“No, of course not!” Sobel exclaimed, rather defensively. “What would make you think that?”

In her periphery, Margaret could see him subtly peering into the woods around them as they reached his boat.

“Oh, nothing in particular,” Margaret plucked the clothes from the top of her basket that gave the pretense of laundry and unloaded the contents into the waiting basket in the boat. “I’ve just heard recently that it may be something I should be worried about,” she leaned against the side of the boat, raising an eyebrow with a pointed look.

Sobel sighed and mirrored her routine with his basket before stepping back. “You’ve talked to Brewster.”

“I have.”

“If it makes you feel better, Miss Margaret, there are few sailors in these parts who are as good as Brewster – meaning few people could’ve followed me the way he did, even with all the smugglers sailing the Belt.” Seeing Margaret’s skeptical eyebrow still firmly in place, he quickly continued. “ _And_ , after the thorough thrashing he gave me, I have been much more careful during my crossings.”

Margaret allowed him to sweat for a brief moment more before softening her features. “I believe you, Sobel. Just _please_ be careful, for both our sakes. This grows more dangerous every month.”

“I swear it to you, my lady,” Sobel offered her an exaggerated bow before placing a hand over his heart with a solemn expression, letting her know he did take her concern seriously. “And now you have to swear never to tell Brewster what I just said about him.”

“I promise,” Margaret chuckled.

Sobel handed the empty basket back to her. “Your laundry business must be going well, seems like you’ve got quite the haul here compared to the last couple of months.”

“It’s certainly steady work,” she understated with a huff. “But our good fortune is mostly due to me now living at my friend’s estate in a large house full of billeted soldiers.”

Sobel let out a low whistle. “Throwing yourself into the lion’s den, eh?”

Margaret smirked. “Something like that. The advantage is that I now have an excuse for purchasing larger quantities of goods from the store, and there are plenty of soldiers at my disposal who don’t notice when I nick things here and there.”

Sobel laughed softly, shaking his head.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing in particular,” he echoed with a smile. “I can just see why Brewster’s so fond of you, that’s all.”

* * *

It was long past dark, and Margaret was fully prepared to butcher Jenny the horse.

 _Jenny the mule is more like it_ , she thought sullenly, ankle twisting in the mud yet again.

Supply transfer taking place without incident, Margaret and Jenny had set off once more on the familiar road back to Setauket. They hadn’t even made it half-way home when the wind shifted, the scent of rain and crackle of a storm winding its way through the trees. Jenny had slowed, shaking her head anxiously as Margaret murmured soothing words to her and urged her forward; dusk was fast approaching and it would be nearly an hour yet for them to reach Strong Manor to drop the baskets off, after which they would have to continue to the Campbell house and unhitch before Margaret walked back to the estate. 

They had continued on for only a few minutes when the first rumble of thunder echoed across the sky, causing Jenny to rear in fright and refuse to walk forward despite Margaret’s pleas and the crack of the reins. Grumbling several choice phrases under her breath that would have made Caleb proud (and Ben blush), Margaret coiled the reins under the seat and scrambled down the wagon. Continuing her murmured nonsense to the skittish animal as she approached, Margaret wrapped her hand around Jenny’s bridle and managed to urge the old horse forward, walking side by side with her as they felt the first drops of rain on their skin.

She quickly raised the hood of her cloak and continued for the next hours through increasingly hazardous terrain as the rain grew thicker, turning the roads into treacherous paths that caused woman, horse, and wagon to slip often as they pressed on into the falling darkness and gathering storm. The tree limbs were now silhouetted against a grey sky intermittently lit by brilliant flashes of lightning, grisly skeletons dancing in the wind that whipped ever more fiercely with each passing minute. Twice the wagon nearly got stuck, Margaret furiously clicking her tongue and pulling Jenny into a faster pace to prevent the wheels from sinking any further into the muck. 

Night had long since fallen when she finally came upon the sentries again — different men this time, but thankfully between the storm and the previous guards telling the new ones to expect her, she was quickly sent on to town. 

Trudging down the road again with the occasional violent sneeze, Margaret was passing the turn off for Whitehall when she recognized the sound of someone in the distance calling her name.

“Meg! Margaret! Is that you?”

Shielding her eyes from the rain, a streak of lightning allowed her tired eyes to make out the blurry form of Abraham striding towards her. 

“What the hell are you doing?” he hollered over the resounding thunder. 

“It’s such a lovely evening, I thought I’d take Jenny here for a walk,” she bitingly yelled back as the mare whickered nervously. 

Abraham shushed at Jenny as he approached, running a mollifying hand down her nose.

“I can’t stop,” Margaret warned, voice closer to a normal volume. “The storm delayed us on the way back from Smithtown. _She_ ,” at this, she threw a dirty look to the horse, “refused to continue without me guiding her, and the wheels have already almost stuck in the road twice.” 

She saw Abe take stock of her undoubtedly bedraggled appearance: soaked clothes, hair stuck to her forehead, a slight limp.

“Here, wait for just a moment to catch your breath,” Abe took hold of the other side of Jenny’s bridle and clicked his tongue, guiding her onto the slightly sturdier grass next to the property fence. 

Margaret stepped over to lean her drenched back against the wagon, closing her eyes and tilting her face up to the tree above them that lightened the rain pouring down. She heaved a sigh as she heard Abe walk around the horse and stop next to her. 

“Are you all right?” 

She smirked bitterly, not opening her eyes. “It’s been quite a long day.” 

“I can imagine.”

A comfortable silence stretched between them for a moment.

“You should stay at the farm tonight.”

Margaret opened her eyes, her head lolling towards Abe, who mirrored her stance against the wagon. “I should what?”

“Spend the night at the farm. It’ll take you some time to get back to the estate in this weather, I can tell you’re exhausted, and the farm’s just up the road.”

“Abe…” Margaret sighed.

“She won’t mind.”

“She will.”

“She won’t!” Abe turned to face her. “She’s not cruel, Meg, she’ll take you in for the night.”

Margaret’s brow furrowed. She certainly couldn’t claim to be friends with Mary Woodhull, but she also didn’t think the worst of her. “I didn’t say she was cruel, Abraham – nor did I imply it – I’ve never thought that. It’s simply that it is already night, I am an unmarried woman—”

“We have an unmarried man _living_ with us,” Abe pointed out with willful ignorance.

“That’s different and you know it,” she shot back. “As I was saying, I am an unmarried woman, who is friends with you and not your wife, and it wouldn’t seem right to a good many people who would undoubtedly find out.”

Abraham shoved himself upright before turning around to rest his forearms on the lip of the wagon’s side. “We grew up together, you’re my _friend_. It doesn’t “seem right” to me that I’m not allowed to help you because of what people might think,” he grumbled.

Margaret smiled softly at him as she reached out to lay a hand on his arm. “I know. I appreciate it all the same. Besides, Anna would be out of her mind with worry if I didn’t make it home tonight, especially in this weather.”

Abe nodded silently. Margaret paused, pulling her arm back and staring down at her hands as she considered her next words carefully. Abe would no doubt be incensed at Mary’s impudence in approaching Anna the way she did, but Margaret knew neither of the women would deign to tell him of the incident.

“Abe, there’s something y—” Margaret’s words caught in her throat as she glanced up at her old friend.

For the first time that night, she truly _saw_ him. Saw the defeat in the slump of his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw and fists as he resolutely stared at Whitehall in the distance.

Perhaps the incident at the docks could wait.

“Abraham, are _you_ all right?” she turned his question back on him.

“Tell me, it was really just Jenny’s stubbornness that delayed you?” he asked with a worried look instead of answering.

Margaret frowned at him. “Yes, why?”

He glanced away. “Dejong came to my farm today, threatening my father because of all this business with the stones. He specifically mentioned my father’s travels to New York — if all of this isn’t resolved tomorrow, you shouldn’t travel alone anymore, the road may not be safe.” 

“Mm. Hopefully it will be finished, one way or another. Besides,” Margaret shrugged, reaching into her pocket, “I always have my muff pistol with me anyways,” she pulled out the small pistol that had been a gift from Austin for her twentieth birthday.

“Christ, Meg!” He moved the barrel to point away from him with wide eyes.

She laughed softly, glad to see some of his stress forgotten. “It isn’t loaded. And I wouldn’t be able to hit the side of a building with it even if it was.” Returning the pistol to its resting place, the humor left her face. She bit her lip. “You know, before going to Smithtown, I...I paid a visit to my brother.”

Abe’s face tightened again. “Meg—”

“I just...I know his stone will be the first Hewlett takes, I _know_ it.”

“Meg—”

“And I know it had to be your father’s first choice as well,” Margaret rambled, not paying any attention to the man next to her. “It’s exactly what to do to send a message. He must not have asked me because he knew I’d say no—”

“Margaret!” Abraham finally managed to interrupt her. “I spoke to my father.” 

“Oh,” Margaret blinked owlishly at him as she sniffled most indelicately. “Tonight?” The emotional day and near-three hour walk through a tempest had tired her more than she realized. 

“Yes, tonight,” Abraham laughed quietly. “Just now.”

“I was wondering why you were here,” she yawned as fatigue rippled through her body. She briefly contemplated if it was possible to sleep standing up. She could always ask Jenny about it.

“I think I changed his mind.”

“What?” Margaret asked distantly, the thought of steaming bowl of stew and a roaring fire distracting her.

“I think...” Abe hesitated. “I think tomorrow he’ll stand with the town against Hewlett.”

_“What?”_

“Ah, so you are listening,” Abe teased.

“What do you mean? A...a _revolt_?” Margaret whispered, far more alert than she had been but a few seconds ago.

“Not a...regular uprising. Certainly not violent, and we won’t be destroying any tea,” he smirked. “But a decision to stand our ground against Hewlett’s cruel and unnecessary decision, patriot and Tory alike. The people will stand behind my father, and if even Hewlett’s most staunch supporter turns against him…” he trailed off. 

“Hewlett would prioritize the town over the stones,” Margaret smiled, tentative hope blooming in her chest. 

“We’ll see come dawn.”

* * *

Margaret couldn’t remember a time she had been happier to see the imposing shape of Strong Manor. 

Abe had walked Jenny back to the estate, allowing Margaret to rest in the wagon bed, and carried the four baskets (two empty, two full of clothes) to the porch upon arrival before grabbing hold of Jenny’s bridle once more to return horse and wagon to the Campbell house. Assuring him she’d manage fine with the baskets, Margaret thanked him profusely, bid him a safe journey home, and wearily trudged up the steps, feet scuffing the wet stone and squishing in her drenched shoes all the while. Seeing the baskets waiting for her upon reaching the porch, she considered leaving them there til morning, feeling as she did – as though Jenny was stomping on her head, accompanied by a most unpleasant shakiness in her limbs. 

As she remembered the early morning she would have the next day, Margaret heaved a bone-weary sigh and retrieved the large laundry baskets, piling them on top of the other and dragging her feet up the steps, lest she feel even worse the next day. Wedging the baskets between the door frame and her body so she could reach out and open the door, she found herself saying a prayer of thanks for Abraham’s insistence on seeing her back to the estate and taking care of Jenny for her. Though she had protested at first, he maintained that if she refused to stay at the farm, this was the least he could do. Margaret, having no strength to argue with him, acquiesced quickly.

“Stupid man,” she muttered fondly, a cough racking her chest. Heaving the door open, Margaret could see strange dark spots dancing around the edges of her vision as the pounding in her head grew worse. She stumbled into the warmth of the foyer, appreciating the soft glow of the few candles left lit for nighttime, fearing what sudden brightness would do to her head. She pushed her hip against the door to close it behind her, shutting her eyes briefly against her increasingly blurred vision as she belatedly felt the heavy stack of baskets begin to tip out of her arms. Grappling with them, fingers numb from the cold skittered uselessly along the edges as she moved too quickly for her exhausted body and tripped over her own feet, a gasp wrenching itself from her throat as the baskets tumbled out of her grip. She opened her eyes to see the floor rapidly approaching, unable to make a move to prevent her fall. Her wrist bent sharply beneath her stomach upon her landing, her head meeting the floor with a painful thud. 

She laid there for a moment in a daze.

_Get up_ , Margaret thought to herself.

…or did she say it out loud? She couldn’t quite tell. She had been freezing for the past few hours, but the cool floor felt soothing against her temple.

Perhaps she could sleep there.

 _Get up_.

She stared blankly at the scattered baskets in front of her that blurred in and out of focus, unable to tell if her heart was pounding in her ears or it was her head throbbing.

 _Get up_.

She heard a far-flung rumble of thunder and an equally distant feminine shriek.

Did that emanate from her own mouth? She didn’t think so. A voice that was familiar as soft and collected now rang with terror, calling out for someone…

_“Margaret!”_

Calling out to her.

“Jordan!”

...decidedly not calling out to her, then.

_Get up._

The floor rumbled against her cheek, as if the earth itself was trying to wake Margaret from her stupor. Two pairs of shoes came into view and she was gently rolled onto her back to meet warm brown eyes; she blinked up at Abigail’s hazy face that was tight with worry as work-worn, gentle hands cupped her cheeks and rested across her forehead.

“My God, Jordan, she’s burning up, run for Dr. Mabbs.”

_Get up._

Margaret tried to protest, her tongue feeling thick in her mouth. Mabbs would cost money that she couldn’t spare, and she refused to allow Anna to relinquish her money so Margaret could be told to use the common-sense treatments and warm compresses that she would have anyways. 

She dragged a leaden hand up to grip Abigail’s wrist, catching her attention. “No,” she managed to whisper, forcing herself to focus on Abigail’s face. “Please, no, I’ll be all right.”

Abigail’s misgiving was clear as she looked up to the other person in the room, whom Margaret couldn’t quite see — _Jordan_ , she realized. The handsome, solemn man she had oft seen cavorting with young Cicero. _What is he doing in the house so late_? She quickly shrugged off the thought as unimportant. 

Margaret tried to assuage her with a smile, but she knew it had to come across as more of a grimace. “Please don’t get Dr. Mabbs, if you could just help me up to my room…” Margaret trailed off with a harsh cough. 

Abigail quickly moved to support her head. “Now don’t be foolish, Meg—"

“Abby, _please_ , please don’t get Dr. Mabbs.”

The older woman pursed her lips. “If you’re sure…” she said uncertainly. 

Margaret nodded emphatically. She saw Abigail look once again to Jordan, who moved into Margaret’s line of sight and kneeled to assist in getting her sorry arse off the floor. 

Holding on to Jordan’s shoulder with his arm around her back and Abigail gripping her other hand and elbow, Margaret maneuvered herself to standing on shaky legs. A bead of sweat slid down her temple.

_Wasn’t I just freezing?_

She managed only a few shuffling steps towards the now imposing staircase before her knees buckled slightly, causing Jordan and Abigail to clutch at her before she could fall again. 

“I’m sorry,” Margaret gasped as she tried to right her failing body. 

“May I, Miss Margaret?” Jordan asked, pulling her slightly closer.

Margaret nodded silently, not quite sure what he was asking, but willing to do anything to make this night a bit easier. She bit her lip to stifle her gasp as Jordan scooped her up into his arms as easily as if she were a child, despite her full figure and layers of drenched clothing. Glancing over his shoulder as he ascended the stair, Margaret saw Abigail gathering the strewn clothing from the floor into the baskets before moving them out of the way and firmly closing the door, shutting out the dreadful night. 

Her eyes drifting open and shut of their own accord as she was cradled against Jordan’s chest like a helpless babe, Margaret still had the wherewithal to send up another silent prayer of thanks that she wasn’t discovered splayed out in the foyer by redcoats, all of whom remained absent on the way to her room. 

“This way.” Upon reaching the landing of the second story, Abigail hurried around them and redirected Jordan to the bedchamber next to Margaret’s, holding the door open and telling him to place Margaret in the comfortable reading chair next to the large hearth. 

“Abigail, this is Anna’s chamber! I’d be perfectly comfortable in my own,” Margaret weakly protested as Jordan set her in the chair with a surprising gentleness. “Thank you,” she murmured to the tall man who responded with a stoic face and stiff nod before backing to the doorway. 

“Nonsense,” Abigail chided, kneeling between Margaret and the smoldering fire and reaching to pry her mangled shoes off her feet. “If there’s one thing you need right now it’s warmth, and you don’t have a hearth in your room. Besides, you know as well as I Anna won’t mind a whit.” 

Margaret grimaced as Abigail eased her right shoe off, jostling her swollen ankle. The older woman murmured an apology as she set the shoes to the side of the hearth and turned to pick up several logs, stoking the small fire that had been heating the room for the past hour in anticipation of Anna’s return. She turned to Jordan, who was still standing in the open doorway, averting his eyes away from Margaret’s stockinged feet.

“Jordan, go to Miriam in the kitchen and tell her to boil water until I say to stop, then fetch the tub and bring it up here. Bring buckets of the water up and put them outside the door,” she directed. At Jordan’s nod and departure, Abigail turned back to Margaret and reached for the ties of her cloak with swift hands. “We’re gonna sweat this fever out of you, all right?” she gave her a reassuring smile.

Margaret gave a slow nod in return, shifting her weight so Abigail could pull her cloak from underneath her, removing the first layer of damp fabric. The fire now roaring in front of her, Margaret felt gooseflesh rise across her skin and fierce shivers resound through her body; with Anna’s large bed in her line of sight, she pictured herself burrowing under the heavy blankets like some woodland creature, hiding herself away til spring. 

Startling at Abigail’s gentle hand on her wrist, Margaret watched Jordan bring the heavy washtub into the room and place it directly in front of the hearth. 

“I’m going to get you a fresh shift and some things from your room,” Abigail told her as she followed Jordan to the doorway.

Margaret was suddenly reminded of the package she had collected from her parents’ house that morning – _was it truly only this morning?_ – which was somewhere in her room.

“Oh, Abigail!” Margaret called around a yawn. “In my room there’s bundle for you — it’s…it’s my brother’s clothes.” She swallowed hard as both Abigail and Jordan paused before leaving the room. She reminded herself that she had no need of them beyond sentiment, and they could be put to good use elsewhere. “I thought perhaps Cicero could use them. Obviously they’d be far too large right now, but you could take them in to be let out as he grows, they should last quite some time...” she paused her rambling. “Anyways, they’re yours if you’d like them.”

Abigail looked back at her with bright eyes and a hand placed over her mouth. “Your brother’s?” she whispered. “You’d give my boy your brother’s things?” 

Margaret shrugged, noticing an indiscernible look on Jordan’s face and somewhat uncomfortable at the gratitude on Abigail’s for such a simple thing. “They should go to someone who can use them, instead of sitting in my parents’ house.” 

“Thank you, Margaret. I know he’ll appreciate them as much as I do,” Abigail smiled at her, turning to go and lightly pushing Jordan out as well, closing the door behind her. 

Margaret desperately tried to keep her wits about her as she awaited Abigail’s return, yet was startled again by Abigail placing a gentle hand on her wrist. In between filling the tub with steaming water, bucket by bucket, Abigail helped her shed clothing that seemed to have adhered to her skin and immediately guided her to the tub to soak, Margaret too tired and weak to feel as self-conscious as she normally would about Abigail seeing her naked as the day she was born. 

Several times, Abigail took buckets of cooling water out of the tub to be replaced with fresh, hot ones — scalding Margaret’s skin more than once — and she kept the fire stoked to a roaring blaze. Head resting limply on the lip of the tub, Margaret woozily drifted between asleep, awake, and the strange place in between as she felt beads of sweat continually slide down her face, dripping off her nose and chin to mix with the steaming water.

Though her eyes were closed and senses generally dulled by her less-than-lucid state, she wasn’t startled by a hand reaching into the water from somewhere behind her and gently resting on her shoulder. She thought vaguely that perhaps she _should_ be startled by such a thing, as the hand felt far too large and masculine to belong to Abigail, but it was no matter. She knew who the hand belonged to.

If only she could remember their name.

She glanced down, the ink-stained fingers just barely in her sight as scents reminiscent of old, well-worn books, polished leather, and – ever so faintly – sweet, fresh hay wafted past her nose.

She wanted to cry.

She knew who it was, she did, all she had to do was turn around to see their face.

The hand stroked the back of a finger along the line of her jaw as a kiss was placed atop her head.

All she had to do was turn around.

The hand slowly moved stray curls from her forehead, softly caressing her hair as it tucked it behind her ear.

She only had to turn around and she’d remember, why couldn’t she remember?

 _It’s all right._ A steady voice murmured in her ear, comforting and heartbreaking all at once. _You don’t have turn around. You know who I am. You don’t have to turn around._

A kiss was pressed to her temple in a way so terribly familiar and yet…strange. Distant.

_It’s all right. You’ll be all right._

She only had to turn around.

She only had to—

“Margaret!”

Margaret’s eyes snapped open to see Abigail’s face before her again.

“It looked as though you were having a bad dream,” Abigail murmured. “You were moving and talking…I thought it best to wake you.”

 _A dream_.

A steady voice lingered in her ear, though she could no longer understand the words.

“Thank you,” Margaret whispered. “What…what was I saying?”

“Nothing that made any sense,” Abigail shook her head, moving to stoke the fire. “You just kept saying you had to turn around.”

* * *

Nestled like a baby bird amongst a pile of pillows and blankets the quality of which she’d never experienced, Margaret had never been more relieved that she made the decision to visit Anna that fateful day in October.

She had drifted off twice more after being woken from her strange dream, but eventually blinked rapidly several times as she fully stirred from her stupor, feeling more alert than she had since leaving Whitehall’s grounds. She had taken a deep breath and propped herself up in the tub, feeling as though her head returned to its normal weight; she noticed some lingering unsteadiness in her hands, but figured that was primarily from hunger. Looking around the no-longer uncomfortably warm room that brightened every few minutes from the storm still raging outside, she saw Abigail sitting across from her on the bench at the end of Anna’s bed, a tired smile on her face. 

“I think we managed to stave off the worst of it,” Abigail had softly said, helping her stand, dry off, and put on a fresh shift before settling her into the bed with a hot cup of tea and a slab of plain bread to gently fill her stomach. Waving away Margaret’s incessant murmurs of thanks while she tore into the bread, Abigail perched on the edge of the bed with a warning to slow down lest it make an unwanted reappearance. 

Gulping down her mouthful of bread, Margaret slowly sipped at her tea, gratitude and warmth clenching her heart as she gazed upon Abigail’s brilliant smile.

“I really can’t thank you enough,” Margaret told her, forehead creasing at her next thought. “If I had still been living alone…” she trailed off.

Abigail patted her leg through the blanket. “It’s a good thing you came to stay with us,” she asserted. “You’ve gotten far too used to being alone for my taste,” she smiled. 

“If I’m being honest, that’s what finally drove me to come here back in October,” Margaret admitted. “I did want to help Anna, of course, but...I also wanted to help myself,” she grimaced, glancing down at her tea. 

“Nothing wrong with helping yourself,” Abigail stated wisely. “Especially,” she tilted Margaret’s chin up to meet her eyes, “if no one has helped you. And besides, it’s been good for Anna too, you must know that. You’ve always been dearest friends, and…” she hesitated, biting her lip. 

“What is it?” Margaret pressed, leaning forward.

“I...I have a feeling she’s also seeking forgiveness,” Abigail said tentatively. 

“You think so?”

Abigail paused, busying her hands by nervously smoothing out the blankets. “After...after your brother’s funeral, Anna was inconsolable for weeks,” Abigail disclosed. “She hid it from the redcoats in the house, but I could tell she wanted nothing more to be by your side, she hated the thought of you all alone. She and Master Selah were so afraid of what could happen to him, though. No matter what we did, neither of us could console her.”

Margaret silently stared at her for a moment, not so much rattled at her confession as hearing Selah referred to in such a way. She had long since guessed Anna’s motives for her absence during those horrible weeks and was not upset by the idea of Anna seeking penance by doing everything she could to be present in Margaret’s life — she wished the other woman would have spoken to her about it, but did appreciate it all the same. 

No, what left Margaret speechless was hearing Selah’s…title come so easily from Abigail’s mouth. Of course it had always been known to her, but with Abigail’s lifelong friendship with Margaret, Anna, and the boys, it was frighteningly easy to forget that she was, in fact, enslaved. And the tall, quiet man who saved Margaret’s life was the one holding Abigail’s chains. 

Margaret felt sick. And in an entirely different way than what she had experienced the past several hours. 

_What would Mother think of me now?_

Margaret had no doubt the woman would be heartily ashamed if she could see her daughter. Raised a Quaker, Lydia Dunbar ceased her active practice as a member of the Society of Friends upon her unlikely marriage to Margaret’s Presbyterian father, but stayed steadfast in the beliefs she had held firmly all her life, and raised so both her children to believe in the equality of all life — man or woman, slave or free. 

Abigail worked all day, every day, without pay and without the freedom to choose something different if she so desired. She was a child of God as truly as Margaret was, and yet legally was property of dear friends. 

Margaret’s mother had encouraged both her and Austin to decry the practice of slavery and support the abolitionist movement. And Margaret had moved to an estate built and run on the backs of slaves, without saying a word to challenge Anna on why they had yet to be freed. Her meals were cooked, dishes cleaned, and rooms maintained by slaves without her giving it a second thought. Jordan had carried her to Anna’s room when she was unable to stand because he had no choice but to assist his mistress’ houseguest in any way possible. Abigail had saved Margaret from what surely would have been a serious, if not life-threatening, illness that night — and though Margaret was confident Abigail would have done so regardless as her friend, the truth of the matter was that she too ultimately had no choice.

She drew Margaret a bath while she would surely rather be with her son. She tucked thick blankets around Margaret and settled her into a plush feather bed with a roaring fire nearby but lived in a cramped, barren cabin. She served them tea, wine, and food but was never invited to sit at their table. No matter how disastrous a turn Margaret’s days had taken over the past year, it was no comparison to Abigail’s entire life.

And Margaret had given her some clothes. 

Perhaps the bread she had wolfed down without a care would be making a reappearance after all. 

Guilt and shame crowding her thoughts, Margaret belatedly realized she had been staring at Abigail for several moments with an undoubtedly distraught expression growing on her face when the woman leaned in with a worried look.

“It is not only for your forgiveness that she desires your staying here,” Abigail tried to reassure her, having no notion of the true nature of Margaret’s thoughts. “She loves you, as much as any bloodborne sister she could have had.”

Margaret blinked and cleared her throat, nodding. “I—yes, I know. I love her too,” she tried to smile. She wanted desperately to talk of her sudden realizations, but had no idea how to properly broach the subject. In her current state, it was a discussion probably best left alone until she could be sure to form fully coherent thoughts.

Changing the subject of conversation, the two women talked for a bit about taking in Cicero’s new clothes and shared a laugh at how fast they would need to be let out as he was growing like a weed. Margaret's eyes drifted closed multiple times during their light conversation, but Abigail would call her name or lightly shake her leg to wake her, insisting she finish her tea and allow the bread to settle before trying to sleep. Just as Margaret was finishing the last dregs in her teacup, she startled, nearly spilling her tea leaves down her front as the door to Anna’s room swung open and there stood the Anna herself, visibly frightened. 

“Margaret!” Anna gasped as she rushed to her and reached out to grasp Margaret’s free hand, Abigail standing to go close the door. 

Anna sat on the edge of the bed, taking Abigail’s place and looking Margaret up and down. “There were a number of stragglers in the tavern, I just arrived home. Miriam told me you were in here because you collapsed,” she fretted, smoothing a few stray hairs off Margaret’s forehead as Abigail came to stand next to the seated women. “Are you ill? What happened?”

Margaret set her empty teacup on the side table and grasped Anna's hands. “I’ll be all right — only because of Abby,” she gave the standing woman a small smile before turning back to Anna to relate the exciting events of her evening from the time she left Smithtown. By the time she finished her dismal tale, she had scooted over and pulled her knees up to her chest, resting her arms across them, and all three women were seated on the bed in a circle as if they were young girls again. 

“Well,” Anna said after a pause, giving Margaret a stern look, “I decree that you shan’t leave this house for at least a few days, if not a week, to ensure Abby managed to prevent a serious illness.” When Margaret opened her mouth to protest, Anna held up a hand. “Give me your customers names and I’ll send a missive to Smithtown, letting them know their laundry will be delayed, they should understand” she told her, misinterpreting her objection. “I’ll also help you with your work, perhaps I could even take the load on entirely for this week, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“No, it’s— thank you, I certainly appreciate that,” Margaret interrupted herself, “and I will do as I’m told, I promise, but I have to go to town tomorrow morning.” At Anna and Abigail’s disbelieving looks, she continued. “The stones. After that, you can even lock me in my room if you like, but I _must_ go.” She hugged her arms around her legs, looking away from her friends. “After everything… There was nothing I could do two months ago, Anna. I have to protect him now.”

“Oh, Margaret. I would _never_ try to stop you from that, darling.”

Margaret looked up with a sorrowful smile to see her expression reflected on Anna and Abigail’s faces. “Abe said dawn tomorrow, I’ll need to be awake and readying well before then, I’m sure it will take me a while to get to town.” 

Anna shook her head. “No, I’ll go with you, we can take the wagon.” 

“You’ll have to work alone in the tavern for the next few days, I can’t ask you to go with me, especially if you take on my laundry for the week as well.” 

“Perhaps you can’t ask, but I’ll be going anyways,” Anna asserted with a resolute look. 

“I will make sure one of the stable boys hitches the wagon for you in the morning and help you both ready,” Abigail added.

Margaret felt her guilt rise again. “No, Abby, you’ve done far more tonight than I could ever properly thank you for, you needn’t—”

“Nonsense, I’d be glad to. As I said, Meg, you’ve been alone far too long.” 

Margaret felt her heart clench, but not in the way she had been so used to as of late. This constriction was not grief-stricken, not guilty, not regretful. It was both happy and sad, a faint recollection of a full life that she sorely missed. Distant memories of a house filled by laughter and light, with no dark corners or empty seats at the table. Friends as far away as a walk across town, not entire states. Endless mischief with the looming threat of a strict punishment of no supper, secrets the worst of which would cause a soon-forgotten broken heart, and games that involved the imminent danger of a twisted ankle or a skinned knee. 

She reached out a hand to each friend and held on tightly. “I...I do believe I have. Thank you.” 

“Well, we all best get some sleep then,” Abigail said, standing and straightening her skirts. “The morning will come far sooner than we would like.” 

As Abigail assisted Anna with readying herself for bed, Margaret fought to keep her eyes open, knowing there was one more item of vital importance she needed to discuss with Anna without Abigail in the room – for her own safety, if nothing else. As Anna slipped into bed, Margaret turned on her side to face her, glancing at the closed door and sliding herself towards the middle.

“There’s something else,” Margaret murmured, her urgent whisper causing Anna to scoot closer until the two were practically nose to nose. “This morning, at the churchyard, I saw Major Hewlett…”

* * *

_November 12th, 1776_

Margaret appreciated Anna’s support, she truly did, but she wished the woman weren’t so damned stubborn. 

With a small smile, she wondered how often her loved ones had thought the same about her. Following their arrival at the churchyard, she had been unable to convince Anna to stay at the back of the group of impassioned townsfolk when the other woman registered her apprehension at pushing her way through an angry crowd of friends and neighbors.

_**She skidded to a halt upon reaching the gathering crowd and began shoving her way through…** _

As they made their way through the crowd, squeezing between and skirting around fellow dissenters, those around them began to take notice of the two women; Margaret felt her heart leap in her throat, a familiar scene from only two months before playing out in her mind.

_**She had made it almost halfway when realization of who she was rippled through the crowd, several vocal Tories pushing back against her, not allowing her to pass.** _

Already short of breath due to a persistent cough that would likely plague her for some time as a pleasant reminder of her night in the storm, her breaths started coming fast and short, the throng blurring slightly as she made her way forward on unsteady legs, her ankle throbbing with every step. 

_**Margaret roughly elbowed and shoved at those around her even as they tightened, cutting off her path forward. Her chest constricted as her breath moved in and out of her lungs faster than she could control.** _

A hand found hers, held it tight, and a Strong walked her through a mob yet again. 

Margaret noticed something strange as they approached the front, returning Anna’s firm grasp on her hand. Faces, familiar faces — some of whom the very same who had shoved, screamed, and spat at her two months ago — turned as she passed; they recognized her, and stepped aside. Some gave her a small nod or encouraging look, and they moved out of her way. 

With Hewlett making himself a common enemy for the divided loyalties of the people of Setauket, Austin Roe had gone from a traitorous rebel to a martyr. 

Margaret saw Abraham’s familiar cap just ahead as she and Anna stopped, and anchored herself to Anna’s hand as Richard Woodhull began speaking, knowing this was the moment that could change everything. 

Listening intently to his speech, it did not take her long to realize how right she was — though not in the way she had hoped.

“We have failed to consider what’s most important here. Not what we want, or what the major wants. But what God wants.” 

Margaret felt her rage grow hot in her body, even as she wrapped her cloak more tightly around herself to ward off the biting air. As the judge concluded his speech and entered the graveyard, she stayed frozen in place, her eyes boring into the back of Abraham’s head. The fickle townsfolk slowly began moving around her, grabbing picks and shovels to desecrate their families’ graves alongside Woodhull. The bastard judge had forced her hand. 

_It wasn’t only him though, was it?_

In convincing Hewlett that she was a loyal citizen of the crown, she single handedly ensured the major would be watching her, expecting her to do her duty. 

She had cornered herself.

“Stay here,” she muttered to Anna.

“Margaret—”

“Stay. Here.”

Feeling as though she had just gotten a mouthful of dust, Margaret swallowed best she could and forced her feet forward, meeting no one’s eyes and barely pausing to pick up a shovel before continuing to her family’s final resting places. She twisted the smooth wooden handle in her hands, the cutting November wind that was the last remnant of the storm whipping her cloak and skirts around her legs as she stepped onto the fresh earth over her brother’s grave.

She heard footsteps rapidly approaching her and looked up to see none other than Major Hewlett approaching her. “Miss Roe!” he called, weaving through the stones and the now docile crowd. 

Margaret stepped away from Austin’s stone in surprise. “Major Hewlett,” she greeted him with a small nod.

“Might I have a word?” At her nod of acceptance, he gestured away from the crowded graveyard. “This way, if you don’t mind. A bit more private.” 

Confused, Margaret laid the shovel on the ground and walked with him towards the church. 

“Miss Roe, your actions here today are commendable.”

Margaret was unable to keep surprise from her face.

“Especially with what you...confessed to me just yesterday—”

 _Was that truly just yesterday?_ she pondered absentmindedly.

“I wanted to offer my sincere gratitude as an officer in His Majesty’s army for your willingness to put aside your own troubled spirit for the greater good of your town,” he smiled at her.

Margaret dearly wished to roll her eyes.

“In recognition of this, I have decided your family’s gravestones should remain exactly where they are,” he told her, tilting his head with a proud look. 

Margaret’s brow creased. “Truly?” 

“Indeed. You see, I firmly believe we should not be held accountable for the deeds of our family, sins of the father and all that, and your willingness to assist your King in carrying out this vital task only cemented my decision,” he preached, surveying the commotion in the once peaceful churchyard. He turned back to her, a pitying look on his face. “A young woman with no family, all alone in this uncertain and dangerous world — and a loyal subject of the Crown at that — this is the least we can do.” 

_It certainly is,_ Margaret thought derisively even as she offered him a demure smile, giving him her hand when he held out his.

Clasping her hand between both of his in a gentle hold, Hewlett gave it a few reassuring pats. “We must allow ourselves proper time to mourn our dead, even if they...failed us in life.” With that, the major bowed over her hand and took his leave to oversee the proceedings. 

Reeling from the turn of events, Margaret turned back to look at the now disheveled graveyard, ‘ _...even if they failed us in life_ ’ echoing in her head. In her periphery, she could see Anna to her right with the other bystanders, watching her with concern. 

With dry, steely eyes, Margaret watched the mob dutifully ravage their own history, their families’ legacies, a familiar hatred and resolve renewing deep within her at their actions, and her own. She understood the necessity the besmirching of her brother’s memory all too well — especially as it had clearly served her well already — but she vowed in that moment to someday rectify it.

Feeling the hair on the back of her neck rise in the peculiar sensation of being watched, Margaret turned her head to meet Abe’s eyes where he stood not too far from Anna. The kindred emotion she saw there on that cold morning warmed her more than any cloak she could ever own. Disbelief. Resignation. The cold, righteous fury in both Abe’s and Anna’s eyes that was surely reflected in her own rooted her where she stood.

If Abraham had started that day with any remnant of the indecision that had plagued him for weeks, there was no trace of it in his face any longer.

A thin thread of hope stitched itself to her very bones, filling her with a penetrating, blinding light and steadfast resolve.

For the few heartbeats that their eyes remained locked, Margaret could’ve sworn the rhythmic pounding of shovels and picks sounded exactly like drums. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. We made it! ((Can you believe last chap and this chap were originally one mega-chapter?? Yeah me neither, I have no idea what I was thinking lol. Like, both chaps each got an additional scene after I split it, but still. Yowza.))  
> So I honestly don't know if anyone even reads these lol, but I don't have a lot to say here other than next chapter will be out in the next two weeks and I'm really excited, I love it a lot.  
> In lieu of anything else, I thought I'd plug my Spotify playlist for this fic again if anyone may be interested - it's all soundtrack that I get similar feels from as the Turn soundtrack (and most are from shows set in similar time periods). Here's the link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5WYbNFj9v7IhPTb0dnqUmj?si=hrnzaAsIQ4q44villH4IKQ  
> (I'm still working on sorting it to put similar tracks together in groupings, there's a *lot* to sort)  
> Also! I have certain tracks picked out at as themes for most of the characters. So I don't end up making this note super long, if anyone's interested in knowing what tracks the themes are, let me know in a comment, I'll give you a list!  
> As always, much love and appreciation!!  
> Enjoy! -Gin


	7. Chapter Six: The Long Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas arrives, and with it comes change and uncertainty. Abigail desperately tries to keep her family together when an unexpected heartbreak marrs their new happiness. Anna reaches the end of her rope as her world shatters around her. Margaret discovers it isn’t easy to be the only one holding everything together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “If I stopped the pain was unbearable. If I stopped and thought, maybe the world can’t be saved, the pain was unbearable.” Mary Oliver, The Moths
> 
> “You go on by doing the best you can. You go on by being generous. You go on by being true. You go on by offering comfort to others who can't go on. You go on by allowing the unbearable days to pass and allowing the pleasure in other days. You go on by finding a channel for your love and another for your rage.” Cheryl Strayed, Tiny Beautiful Things

_Chapter Six_

The Long Game

_December 24th, 1776_

_Strong Tavern, Setauket_

Christmas Eve dawned crisp and bright, with the sharp scent of oncoming snow sweeping through all of Setauket. 

Raised by a Presbyterian father and a Quaker mother, Margaret had no particular connection to the small holiday that had always gone by largely uncelebrated by her family and the area in general, but nonetheless enjoyed the traditions surrounding it that some chose to partake in, such as the greenery decorations that would be carefully placed in homes and businesses that evening and a break from usual business the following day.

 _Of course, Anna and I are allowed no respite for the evening — not when men could be here drinking instead of spending the time with their families_ , Margaret sourly mused to herself as she refilled yet another endless cup in the tavern, steadfastly ignoring the raucous chatter and drunken singing filling the space, as she was wont to do. Wiping the back of her wrist across the beads of perspiration appearing on her forehead as the crowded rooms grew warmer with every new body that stepped in from the brisk night for a tankard and some merriment, Margaret met Anna’s tired eyes from across the room, knowing she too had to be counting down the minutes until they could close for the night. Although the intelligence front had remained quiet since Abe’s return from New York, the strain of their immense workloads was beginning to wear on both women. 

Margaret’s ankle, cough, and soul had slowly healed over the past month as restful sleep once again found its way to her bedchamber, her nightmares returning only occasionally. It was a blessing she did not take lightly. While Anna kept the tavern and estate running smoothly, relentlessly worrying about the threat of the dreaded yet unseen attainder looming over her head, Margaret had continued her laundry and tavern work, along with her more discreet occupations. No longer having to set aside money for food, and collecting far more goods to smuggle than ever before thanks to Anna’s quiet donations (as well as the billeted soldiers’ unknowing contributions), Margaret was able to use some of the extra money she began accruing to do what little she could to make the coming winter slightly easier on the Strong’s slaves. She knew it was impossible for Anna for free them, but she had not yet worked up the nerve to confront Anna on why Selah had never freed his family’s slaves, fearful of the possible answer that he had simply never wanted to.

Task set before her, Margaret set to work purchasing skeins of thick yarn for hats, scarves, and mitts. Though she’d be the first to admit she was a stronger sewer than knitter, necessity and lack of time forced her to learn how to knit full garments quickly– nothing she made was particularly fine and each item usually had more than one mistake, but they were sturdy enough to fulfill their purpose and she was close to reaching her goal since she started a month before. Though she still felt it wasn’t enough, her efforts seemed to be appreciated when she would visit the small, cramped houses to drop off bundles.

A week or so into her new endeavor, Anna had questioned Margaret about her sudden proclivity to be found knitting in all areas of the estate and tavern whenever a spare moment could be found; Margaret explained some of the tenets of her mother’s Quakerism she felt she had unwittingly abandoned, too concerned with her own suffering to consider the misfortune of others. Though the Strong’s slaves had always been treated well — as well as could be, all things considered — with an indiscernible expression on her face, Anna had grabbed her own needles and yarn and silently joined Margaret’s campaign.

Margaret hoped to finish the first part of her task before Christmas in order to start making blankets for the winter months, another project that would take a considerable amount of time. Though she only had a few items left to complete, she was beginning to realize making dozens of blankets was far beyond her capabilities – that is, unless she planned on finishing by the time the next winter rolled around. As she sidestepped numerous sweaty, drunk men while she made her way around the tavern that busy Christmas Eve, she pondered the idea of taking up a collection of old, unwanted blankets from the townsfolk of Setauket and Smithtown; as some would surely take umbrage at her giving them to slaves, she could say she was donating them to the less fortunate — which certainly wasn’t untrue. Smiling at her new assignment, Margaret was startled out of her musings at the soft chime of a clock, scarcely heard over the din. Whipping her head towards Anna standing in the booth, she was met with a relieved smile and nod: the day had ended, Christmas was upon them, and the tavern was closed. 

While they would usually walk around to tell the customers directly that the tavern was closed and they’d be serving no more, Margaret was anxious to clean, head home, and rest with the firm intention of a long lie-in the next morning. To that end, she walked over to the booth and rummaged around until she found a ladle, grabbed her empty pitcher, and raised both above her head, as she stepped onto an empty stool, clanging them loudly enough to catch the attention of everyone in both rooms of the tavern.

“Tavern’s closed, gentlemen!” Margaret shouted over the grumbles of the assorted carousers. “Finish your drinks and be on your way, ‘tis Christmas and I wish to go home,” she finished with a smile as some of the men laughed.

To catch the attention of everyone in such a way would usually cause her to feel highly uncomfortable, but on that particular night Margaret could not find it within herself to care. Just for a moment the world had brightened, and tomorrow’s dawn and all it contained was a promise, not a threat. To her surprise, the men generally consented to depart quickly, a few of the redcoats and townsfolk supporting their fellows too far into their cups to make it home alone. Placing her noisemakers back on the counter, she and Anna grabbed rags to wipe down the sturdy tables as they slowly emptied, smiling and wishing good tidings to all as they passed, neighbor and soldier alike. Just this once. 

The tavern was nearly empty, only one or two stubborn patrons remaining when Margaret, while wiping down a table, saw someone approach in her periphery, and turned to meet the friendly blue eyes of Walter Havens, a true patriot and kind bachelor some fifteen to twenty odd years older than Margaret.

“Oh! Mr. Havens, I di— I hadn’t, er…I hadn’t seen you in here tonight,” Margaret stammered, nervously tucking a stray curl behind her ear as her stomach flipped unpleasantly. “A merry Christmas to you,” she smiled.

“And to you, Miss Roe,” he smiled in return. “I have not seen you as of late — though I imagine there has undoubtedly been much occupying your time. Are you well?” he asked, his face not betraying an ounce of the anxiety Margaret felt threatening to consume her.

“I am,” she twisted the rag in her hands as she struggled to make even the simplest of conversation. “Though the changes in my life as of late have been...great,” she understated, “the most recent ones have been welcome. Mrs. Strong and I take care of one another,” she smiled.

He returned her grin with a relieved look. “That is good to hear. Our last meeting was…well...” he displayed the first sign of hesitation he had shown since approaching her.

“Yes. I know,” Margaret smiled sadly at the memory. 

“I am glad to see your countenance much improved since then — though, of course, that is not to say it wasn’t entirely understandable—” he amended quickly.

“Thank you, Mr. Havens,” Margaret interrupted again, feeling somewhat more at ease knowing she was not the only apprehensive one in the conversation. “I greatly appreciate your concern.”

Mr. Havens laughed softly to himself. “Listen to me, stuttering like a schoolboy.”

Margaret smiled fondly at the gentle man.

“There was something I wished to discuss with you, Miss Roe.”

Margaret straightened as her nervousness returned, having a fair idea of what he wanted to talk about. “Yes, Mr. Havens?”

As he opened his mouth to answer, Anna walked in from the other room with an armful of tankards, smiling genially at Mr. Havens as she passed by. 

“Of course, it is not a matter of immediate importance,” Mr. Havens hurriedly said as Anna placed the tankards on the counter, “it can certainly wait until after the holiday.” Stepping towards the door, he placed his hat on his head and tipped it towards Margaret and Anna, who both acknowledged him with a nod. “A merry Christmas to you, Miss Roe. And you, Mrs. Strong.” 

Both women returned the sentiment, and he was gone.

Brow furrowed at his sudden departure, Anna turned to Margaret. “What was that about?”

Eyes frozen on the closed door, Margaret collapsed into a chair. “That...is quite a story.” 

Anna hummed in acknowledgement, a question clear in her eyes as she finished wiping down the table Margaret had seated herself at and dropped the last of the tankards on the counter. She spun back to face Margaret – who raised her eyebrows at the arch look on her face – and leaned against the counter, crossing her arms.

“Well, the customers are gone, and the tavern is clean. I suppose you’ll just have to tell me about it on the ride back home.” 

Margaret sighed. 

* * *

“Hup!”

Margaret urged the horse forward as Anna laid a spare blanket across their laps, the two of them huddled close together on the wagon bench to ward off the chill. The air seemed thinner than normal; the clear, cloudless sky having caused the temperature to plummet below the frostiness of the day to a bitter cold that was a sharp contrast to the sweltering tavern.

Anna allowed her only moments to collect her thoughts before prodding her towards the story she was clearly anxiously awaiting.

“Well? What was Mr. Havens speaking with you about that he left so suddenly?”

Margaret bit her lip, shifting slightly. She glanced to her side and gave a small smile at the expectant look on Anna’s face before turning her eyes back to the road, where the horse was expertly picking his way along the familiar path.

“Meg?”

“He was going to ask me to marry him. Again.”

As naught but silence emanated from her side, Margaret again looked over to Anna, only to see her dear friend performing an excellent imitation of a fish. 

“ _Again?!_ ”

“Yes, again,” Margaret sighed. “A few weeks after my brother passed, he called on me,” she elaborated as Anna snapped her mouth shut and huddled closer. “Everyone in town knew what a dire situation I was in, having to sell most of my family’s belongings and such, and he approached me with a proposition. A marriage of convenience, if you will; you know he was always friendly with my family, and I suppose he felt beholden to help me in any way he could.” 

Margaret felt Anna nod against her shoulder; both women had known Walter Havens most of their lives. 

“Obviously I turned him down, but he was very kind indeed with his proposal — he said he could provide for me and would never…you know,” Margaret blushed. “He would never…ask anything of me that I was unwilling to give.” 

“He always was a kind man,” Anna smiled. “I don’t know what to make of this, though, why did you never tell me?”

Margaret shrugged as the manor came into view. “It didn’t seem important, I suppose. I turned him down.”

“And are…” Anna hesitated. “Are you content with the decision you made?”

Margaret drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders against the wind from the shore biting at her skin as she turned the wagon around the path to the front of the house.

“Yes,” she said decisively, after a moment. “With everything that’s happened since, I am glad of my choice. However…” she hedged as the wagon rolled to a stop by the porch. “However, there were times...days when I only had enough food for one meal, and the like, that I wondered if his offer was still open to me. I suppose now I know it is.” 

“Indeed,” Anna said, a strange smile growing on her face. 

Margaret handed the reins to the approaching stable boy and the two slowly climbed off the wagon. 

“What’s that about?” Margaret laughed, seeing the twinkle in Anna’s eye. 

“Oh, nothing, nothing.” Anna grabbed Margaret’s arm and pulled her in close. “I was just thinking about how dearly I’d love to see Ben’s expression when you tell him someone else proposed to you while you’re betrothed,” she giggled quietly.

“Anna!” Margaret scolded with a laugh. The more she thought about it, though, it certainly would be an interesting conversation. Ben had a kind soul and a gentle heart, of that there could be no doubt, but he was also in possession of a fearsome temper when provoked, not unlike Margaret herself. Or Anna. 

That is…it certainly _could_ be an interesting conversation.

Margaret sobered as they reached the top of the stairs. “If.”

“Hm?”

“ _If_ I tell him. If I’m able to.”

“When,” Anna corrected her, shaking her head firmly. “When.”

Margaret set her shoulders and nodded. “When.”

* * *

“Well I say the men be damned!” Margaret declared, probably a bit too loudly as Anna shushed her laughingly.

Their tipsy giggles echoed through the empty house, all the servants having been given time off for their own celebration, and the billeted officers attending a gathering at Whitehall, courtesy of Major Hewlett. Margaret and Anna had put together a small platter of cold meat, bread, and cheeses, grabbed several fine bottles of madeira and port, and settled down in the comfortable drawing room, taking advantage of their solitude to discuss the stall in intelligence gathering since November, and whether or not it may be breached before spring. 

“You know I’m right Anna,” Margaret continued, albeit in a much quieter voice, distantly recognizing through the haze beginning to cloud her mind that caution was always wise. “The knights of Setauket, protecting fair maidens from danger,” she drolled, kicking her feet up in a most undignified manner onto Anna’s lap next to her and laying across the seat of the settee. “Cabbage farmer Abraham Woodhull, smuggler Caleb Brewster, and schoolteacher Benjamin Tallmadge.” She rolled her eyes. “Our heroes.” 

Anna snorted into her glass of madeira.

Margaret sat up enough to take another swig out of her own glass before slumping back down on the seat. “Benjamin Tallmadge…” she mused sourly, pursing her lips. “Captain Benjamin Tallmadge,” she said loudly enough to catch Anna’s attention, “recognized — nay, _renowned_ by rebels and redcoats alike for the extraordinary feat of having his head so far up his own—”

“Margaret!” 

Margaret lifted her head from the settee to eye Anna with an innocent expression. “Yes?” 

Anna merely rolled her eyes and shook her head at Margaret’s antics, taking another hefty sip of wine. 

Margaret laid her head back down. “Where was I?”

“Damn the men.”

“Here, here!” Margaret raised her glass in a toast, causing both women to break down in laughter once more. “But yes, I say we forge ahead with our plan, the men be damned. They’ll never agree to our going into the city unless we prove to them it will work.” 

“It will be exceedingly difficult now that the height of winter is almost upon us,” Anna warned. 

“Yes,” Margaret sighed. “Perhaps if we wait ‘til March...if nothing significant has happened, in March you and I will make a “supply run” to York City to...see what we can see?”

Anna patted her foot. “A sound plan.” 

Margaret shivered slightly in the cooling, darkening room; she gazed plaintively at the dying fire in the hearth that neither woman had any desire to get up and stoke. 

“In the meantime, Anna-dear, I’ve been endearing myself to Major Hewlett any time I happen to see him about town.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Anna questioned, swirling her wine around her glass absentmindedly.

“What do you mean?” Margaret frowned, setting her glass on the floor and propping herself up on her elbows best she could.

“Well,” Anna hesitated, staring deeply into the glass in her hands, “that night a month ago, you told me of your...trickery with the major, and since then I’ve been concerned that you won’t be able to keep up your deception forever. It isn’t as if everyone in town believes you to be a Loyalist – far from it, certainly. What happens if he discovers the truth? What happens if you get caught?” she finally turned her head to meet Margaret’s gaze with fear in her eyes.

“I won’t,” Margaret swore, swinging her legs off Anna’s lap and sitting up fully. “And…and even if I do, we’ll figure a way out of it,” she took her friend’s hands in her own, “you and I.” 

Anna nodded, blinking back the tears Margaret could see threaten to spill.

She squeezed Anna’s hands. “Or perhaps we’ll call upon the cavalry and Sir Benjamin will come rescue me,” she smiled.

Their soft laughter was interrupted by a pounding at the door. They turned to each other in confusion, brows similarly furrowed. 

“Who on earth could that be at this late hour?” Anna wondered aloud as she stood and stretched. 

Margaret shrugged as she followed suit. “You go see, I’ll stoke the fire.”

Tasks set, the women moved far more slowly than they would otherwise, their out of the ordinary consumption of alcohol beginning to affect their faculties.

Margaret had only just placed another log on the embers when she heard the heavy door slam shut and a muffled sob emanate from the entryway. Fear rising in her throat, Margaret hurriedly brushed her hands together and dashed through the doorway, gripping the doorframe to swing herself around. She froze at the sight she saw. Anna was curled tightly into herself, seated on the floor with her back against the door, her hands pressing against her face as her chest heaved with the escape of ragged sobs.

A startlingly familiar scene flashed before Margaret’s eyes, one that took place in that very room not too long before. Their positions now reversed, Margaret approached Anna slowly, the way one might approach a wounded animal, and sunk onto the ground beside her, first laying a hand on her shoulder, then sliding her arm around the distraught woman as she melted into Margaret’s side. 

“Anna, love, who was at the door?”

She received no answer apart from Anna violently shaking her head. 

“I don’t understand, Anna, what…” Margaret trailed off as a thought struck her, an obvious reason for Anna’s despair. “My God, Anna, is it the attainder? Did they finally post it?” 

Anna nodded as she pressed a hand across her forehead and sucked in deep breaths. 

“On Christmas, of all days,” Margaret spat as she rubbed soothing circles across Anna’s back. She leaned closer as she realized Anna was muttering something under her breath, too quietly for Margaret to make out. “What? Anna, what are you saying?” 

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do,” Anna breathed, scarcely louder than before, yet the words seemed to echo across the polished wood floor and sink into the papered walls. 

Margaret pressed a firm kiss to the top of her head. “We talked about this; Abe warned you it was coming. I know that doesn’t help much now, but we planned for this. Remember?” she caught one of Anna’s hands and squeezed, hoping to break through to her. 

After a prolonged pause, Anna nodded. “We sell what we can…” she started.

“Yes,” Margaret smiled, “Anything we can discreetly get out of the house I take to sell in Smithtown. Everything I can’t sell I give to Sobel. We move into my parents’ house. We sell the tavern to someone in town. We’ll be all right, you’ll see.” 

Margaret reciting the familiar plan seemed to calm Anna, who was able to sit up straighter and wipe her face clean with her handkerchief. 

“How long do we have?” Margaret asked.

“Seven days. One week for all of this.”

“We can do it. Don’t worry.” Margaret smiled as she remembered the other part of the attainder. “And Anna! The slaves, they’ll be freed!”

Anna’s face crumpled once more as she pressed the handkerchief to her lips. 

Margaret furrowed her brow, fear suddenly striking her that perhaps Anna had perhaps grown far too comfortable with her husband’s family practice.

“Anna…” Margaret coughed lightly as the words grew heavy and stuck in her throat. “Anna, aren’t you glad? Abigail, our _friend_ , and her child, they will be free! They’ll have the freedom they surely long for as much and more as the freedom we so desire from the British. Don’t— Anna, don’t you want that?” Margaret’s voice rose in her growing desperation. “Please, _please_ tell me you want that for them, for all of them.”

Anna hid further into herself, shimmering streaks of tears now visible on her cheeks. “I do, I promise you I do. I only...I know I had no power to free them on my own, but…” she trailed off as her face contorted with shame. “Meg, it wasn’t even something I thought of.” 

Margaret blinked at her. She knew all too well many people had vastly different opinions on slavery than her family, and she had only recently recognized her own shortcomings in the fight against the practice, but to hear Anna say such a thing still surprised her.

“Not everyone grew up with a Quaker mother, Margaret,” Anna sighed, resolutely keeping her face forward. “Besides, even if I _had_ considered it, I never would have been able to without Selah. I never thought of treating them with anything but kindness, but until you told me your mother’s beliefs, it was… You know, it was just...the way it was. The way it had always been. Then I saw you knitting those things and asked and…” she shook her head. “And I’ve never felt more ashamed of myself.” 

Margaret tried to understand what Anna was saying. As she feared — and as she had experienced within herself — one’s comfort often led to one’s complacency. Opening her mouth to reply, she promptly snapped it shut again before she could say something she’d regret, the potency of the madeira fighting against the shock of the attainder. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to organize her whirling thoughts.

How a person was brought up had a significant impact on the way they viewed the world. 

As women, they often had little to no say in what roles the men in their lives expected them to fill, even if they were truly good men at heart (as Margaret was all too familiar with). And so, if Selah desired Anna to be the mistress of an estate thriving on slave labor, that is what she had to be.

They were all sinful creatures by nature, and even those kind and generous as Anna were guilty of some crime against their fellow man. 

It was entirely possible that no matter their past, the most important thing was if one recognized their own wrongdoings and sought to correct them. 

“I...I understand Anna.” Margaret slid her legs out onto the floor in front of her and rested her hands in her lap, opening her eyes. “But what I have learned is that no one is guiltless in this — in the treating of God’s children as property. We are all complicit, even those of us with Quaker mothers,” she said lightly, bumping her shoulder against Anna’s. “I’ve recently come to a similar understanding as you have. I believe forgiveness is attainable, though, truly — if we seek it.” She absentmindedly pulled Ben’s cross out of her jacket and gazed at it, rubbing her thumb across the script.

_…he will not fail thee, neither forsake thee: fear not, neither be dismayed._

“Perhaps the difference that separates good from evil begins with what choices we make once we realize how much we have to atone for.” 

Anna slowly nodded and turned her head to meet Margaret’s eyes for the first time since she sat down. “One week.”

“One week,” Margaret echoed. She could see resolve overtake Anna’s face.

“One week,” Anna murmured again, eyes losing focus as she fell deep in thought. “They’ll have to leave Setauket, I’m sure, there’s no opportunities for them here. Most of them have little to no money, no family to go to, and no idea what to do next. And they have but a week to prepare for it.” 

Margaret startled as Anna turned to her suddenly but smiled at the hint of her friend’s true self peeking through.

“I know what I’m going to do, Meg. It may not work, but I must try. I know what I’m going to do.”

* * *

_December 25th, 1776_

Margaret had no idea where Anna could be. 

She had gone to see Hewlett hours before, exiting the house with determination in her step, only to remain absent ever since, despite the rapid approach of dark and her mention of returning home after speaking with the man. 

Margaret paused in her mending and looked out the window at the dimming light from her chair once again with a worried frown, resolving that if Anna had yet to show in an hour, she would go and look for her, first at the tavern, then Abe’s farm. As she continued sewing she heard several people enter and exit the manor, her head whipping to the door of the drawing room each time, and her heart sinking each time as she was met with no call of her name, and no Anna peering into the room looking for her. 

When the hour was up, Margaret quickly tied off her thread and placed the shirt in her basket as she heard the door open and close yet again, much harsher than the times before. Picking up her basket, Margaret rushed up the stairs to the second floor, almost making it into her room when she glanced down the hall, noticing a warm light from the hearth and soft sobs emanating from the open doorway to Anna’s room. She carelessly tossed the basket in her room and closed the door, fear causing her heart to climb into her throat as she strode forward, wondering how Anna could have snuck past her upon her return.

More importantly, wondering _why_ Anna would have snuck past her upon her return. 

Margaret abruptly halted in the doorframe as she was greeted by the startling sight not of Anna in tears, but Abigail, slumped on the bench at the end of the bed with her face in her hands, muffling the harsh sobs ripping from her throat. 

“Abigail!” Margaret rushed forward, kneeling at the distraught woman’s feet. She gently reached up to place her hands on Abigail’s arms. “Whatever is the matter?” 

Abigail took several deep breaths as she fruitlessly tried to wipe away the steady stream of tears from her cheeks. “Anna was just here,” she gasped haltingly. 

Margaret frowned as she fished her handkerchief from her sleeve, offering it to a grateful Abigail. “Anna’s returned?”

Abigail nodded. “She said she spoke to Major Hewlett—”

“Oh no.” Conclusions snapped together in Margaret’s mind. 

“He told her that I am to be a _gift_ ,” Abigail spat, “to an officer in York City. I am to leave in one week. And…and my son—” she broke down in tears again, unable to continue. 

Margaret shuffled closer on her knees, running a hand down Abigail’s arm and allowing her a moment to collect herself. “Abigail? What about Cicero?”

“He is not to be allowed to come with me.” 

“ _What?_ ” Margaret was aghast. “How is that possible? You both are free!” 

“In words only. In truth, we are all now owned by the British.”

Margaret leapt to her feet as quickly as her skirts would allow. She needed to pace. “How can they do this?” she snarled. “The attainder clearly states Selah’s slaves are _freed_! Of course, what can you expect when they have no desire to free the slaves of Loyalists.” She huffed out a sharp breath as she stopped in front of Abigail with a pained expression. “Oh, Abby, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. 

She sank down on the bench and opened her arms, tucking Abigail close as she rested her head on Margaret’s shoulder. They sat for several minutes in relative silence, Margaret allowing the older woman to pour her emotions out as she rubbed soothing circles into her back.

“I was born a slave,” Abigail finally whispered. “For the first time in my life I was to be able to make my own choices. Work for a fair wage. Let my Cicero see that we can have more than this. And in less than a day that has been taken from me as well. And there is nothing I can do.” She leaned back, wiping her face with Margaret’s handkerchief then offering it back to its owner upon seeing the tears on her cheeks as well. 

Margaret laughed softly as the tension eased, accepting the damp cloth and wiping at her cheeks. 

“I’m sorry. Look at me blubbering like a baby,” Abigail sighed.

“No, no don’t be sorry,” Margaret shook her head and grabbed Abigail’s hands. “Since coming here two months ago, everyone has taken care of me. It is high time I return the favor.” 

Even as they smiled at one another, Margaret’s mind was sprinting to possibilities. She could not stand back and do nothing, not after her vow to take action over a month before. How she went about this, however...that could prove difficult. Moving forward, she would have to be incredibly careful.

“It is true there’s nothing you can do...but perhaps I can,” Margaret started. “Anna is in no position to ask any favors from Major Hewlett, especially depending on what she may have said today, but if I go to him, possibly in a few days to give things a chance to calm down, and if I am quite cautious, and quite clever, then perhaps…” 

“Do you truly think you could change his mind?” Abigail asked cautiously, clearly not wanting to get her hopes up.

“I don’t know,” Margaret frowned. “But I swear to you on my life I will do everything in my power to keep you and your son together.”

* * *

_Continental Camp, Pennsylvania_

Ben could remember far nicer Christmases.

Of course, it wasn’t that Christmas was a particularly important holiday back home in the small, primarily Presbyterian hamlet, and his parents had certainly never made a show of celebrating it with him and Samuel, but even so… An uneventful day of rest from usual work to sit around the fire and read or play outside in the snow with friends, then perhaps exchange a gift or two if the boys were particularly lucky sounded like bliss compared to sitting alone in a tent.

Ben sighed, laying back on his cot and moving his shoulders to better adjust the traveling bag under his pillow. He absentmindedly turned a draughts piece over and over and over again in his left hand, his fingers tracing the smooth, worn edges as he wedged his right arm behind his head and allowed his thoughts to wander.

_Rebel safehouse. Connecticut. Meigs Harbor. Show no quarter._

He turned the piece over.

_“Listen, Bennyboy — Woody did have one condition. He said there’s a bastard redcoat officer leading the attack…”_

He turned the piece over.

_“…this is the most snow we’ve seen in December that anyone can remember! Surely you’d rather be outside enjoying it than inside reading!”_

Ben blinked, the draughts piece stilling in his hand as a long-forgotten echo from a Christmas more than a decade before interrupted his reflection.

It must’ve been…’63. His mother was still alive. They were all so young; Ben and Margaret at age nine as the youngest of the group, and Caleb at twelve as the oldest.

They were all so young.

Ben shook himself, dragging his mind back to the present. He turned the piece over.

_“Then there’s the Reverend Tallmadge, of course. His church is now our garrison. And stables.”_

He turned the piece over.

_Royal Army standing down for winter. 1500 Hessians readying to march. Trenton._

He turned the piece over.

_“This is the kind of intelligence you should have been bringing me.”_

He turned the piece over.

“ _Caleb and Austin have already gone on to Whitehall, are you Tallmadge boys joining us, or are Anna and I going to have to shout up at your window until our feet grow numb?!”_

His fingers halted again as his mind wandered again to a far happier time; one without the ever-lingering presence of loss, of loneliness. A time where his only obligation was to his family and friends, his only duty to mind his parents, observe reverence, and study well.

Ben could still see her standing outside his father’s house, shouting most indelicately up at his and Sam’s bedroom window, demanding they join their friends for a day of fun. Her nose and cheeks were pink from the sharp wind whistling in from the shore, blue eyes bright with excitement as her reddish-brown hair fairly glowed in the sun reflecting off the brilliant, fresh snow. Margaret _beamed_ at him as he stuck his head out the window to holler back that they’d be out in a minute and he knew with all the wisdom of his nine years on Earth, that she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

They were all so young.

Even then, though, it felt as if their childhood was slipping away before their very eyes as the group’s older brothers began to move into the next stage of their lives. Samuel and Thomas would both be leaving for school within the year, and Austin was already an apprentice of sorts to his and Margaret’s father at the smithy.

With their own mortality beginning to make itself known for the first time in their lives, they all allowed themselves an afternoon to be children, as they were meant to be. After tearing through the pristine landscape of snow on Whitehall’s grounds for some time, the seven of them had traipsed all the way to the Strong Estate (Austin grumpily carrying Margaret on his back most of the way), where each of them entreated a reluctant Selah to join them even as he insisted that at sixteen he was a man grown and could not be seen playing in the snow with children. That is, of course, until Austin hit him square in the face with a snowball that led to Selah chasing Austin around the grounds of the manor as they began the longest snowball fight any of them could remember.

Unsurprisingly, the next day everyone in the group had woken up having caught cold – everyone except Abraham, that is. As the smallest of the group, including Margaret and Anna, no one was quite sure how he was the only one who managed to avoid illness, but he was certainly envied as he was allowed to go about his life while the others were confined to their houses.

Ben felt his lips quirk at the memory even as it pulled at his heart with a fierce homesickness.

 _I want to go home_.

Not to the ravaged shell of home he would find were he to pick up and leave the next day, but the home of his youth. The home that was gone.

_I wish—_

“Tallmadge! On your feet!”

Ben startled upright as an officer entered his tent through the open flap.

“Sir.”

He had no earthly idea what could be of such importance on Christmas night, but going by the grave look on the man’s face, Ben would have no more time for reminiscing.

* * *

Margaret and Anna each skidded to a halt a heartbeat before colliding at the foot of the stairs. 

“Oh!”

“Anna!” 

Margaret furrowed her brow at the tears Anna couldn’t wipe away fast enough to hide. 

“Anna, where on _Earth_ have you been?” Margaret demanded, seizing Anna’s upper arms. 

“I...I w—” Anna gasped, balling her armful of laundry against her stomach and placing a hand on her forehead. “I walked. I just...walked. After talking to Hewlett, I couldn’t...I couldn’t come back here, so—” 

“You’ve been walking this entire time?” Margaret gaped at her. 

“No, I—” Anna’s speech broke off again as another sob involuntarily wrenched itself free. 

“Come here,” Margaret softly said, gently pulling Anna down the hall and into the kitchen, where she’d have privacy to compose herself.

Margaret idly wondered if there would ever come a day for them with no more tears.

Anna took deep, shaky breaths as Margaret filled a kettle with water, hoping some hot coffee would help calm the woman’s nerves. 

“I spoke with Abigail, she told me what Hewlett said…” Margaret trailed off, hoping Anna would fill in the rest.

“Yes. After I left Hewlett, I…I don’t really know how long I walked through the woods,” Anna admitted. “But eventually I found myself back at the estate, and all I could think of was to find Abigail and talk to her. I should have told you I made it home, I’m sorry.”

Margaret waved her apology away.

“Then a moment before you found me, I was speaking to Abe.”

Margaret perked up at this and set the kettle on the counter, coffee forgotten.

“Abe was here?” she walked closer to Anna. “Did he have information?”

Anna shook her head fiercely. “No! Well, he did, but—”

“What? Did he or did he not?” Margaret frowned. Anna wasn’t making any sense at all.

“He had information, gotten from Hewlett’s desk at Whitehall, but it doesn’t mean anything!” Anna snapped. “Don’t you understand that? Either of you? Everyone says this war is over, and Hewlett proved today that no matter what we say, what we do, no matter the…the secrets and the lies and the petticoats, they always have a way to beat us.” She turned away, throwing her laundry on a counter and stalking through the kitchen. “You with your overconfidence and Ben with inconsideration and Caleb with his recklessness and Abe with his indecision, _none of it matters_.”

Margaret had no immediate answer for her, taken aback by her friend’s tone and words. _None of it matters?_

“Anna, what are you saying? Is this all because Hewlett refused your request? We knew it was highly possible he would, but I was saying to Abigail, I have a plan—”

“You and your plans,” Anna spat, turned away from Margaret. “You always know what to do, don’t you?”

“Pardon?” Margaret asked, affronted.

“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” Anna amended quietly, still facing the wall. “I’m sorry, I…” she sighed. “I told Abe it’s…I believe it’s time to leave Setauket.”

“ _What?_ ” If Margaret had still been holding the kettle, it would have been on the floor. “Anna, you…you just—” The room spun around her. “You can’t…” Margaret felt her world spiraling out of her control; she did not know if she would survive another chasm. She gripped the edge of the counter as she tilted sideways. “How could you just leave?” Was she shouting? She hadn’t intended to. And yet…

It was justified.

“You speak of Abe and his indecision because it is something that has never plagued you. That is, until now,” Margaret admonished Anna’s back, grateful there seemed to be few people in the house. “You pushed him, you were willing to _lie_ to him, and now you say nothing matters.” She pushed off the counter, stalking closer to the woman who still refused to face her.

“I have already received my scolding from Abraham, thank you. I do not require it from you as well,” Anna threw over her shoulder in a thick voice.

“If you did not require it, you would not be saying such things.” Margaret’s capacity for tenderness was swallowed by betrayal. Perhaps what Anna needed at the moment was someone to coddle her and give her hope, but it would not be coming from Margaret. “It was never going to be easy, Anna Strong, we knew that. I have never known you to admit defeat—”

“But I have!” Anna yelled, finally whipping around to face Margaret with wild eyes. “I am not so strong as you seem to believe, I cannot carry on with the weight of the world on my back as you can!” she gestured madly with her arms, a fierce intensity sparking through her every word and movement. “I did not fight tooth and nail for Abraham those years ago, I accepted his decision. I consented to a loveless marriage, and did not disobey my husband for the sake of my dearest friend – my _sister_ – when he decreed we were to save our own skins during the most horrifying days of her life. Then Abe came to me in the barn, and then the tavern cellar with information – with hope – and I chose to fight, yes,” she laughed bitterly. “I fought in the way that I could, and it didn’t do a _damn_ bit of good. I have no husband, no house, no tavern, the man I love has a wife and family of his own, and we are fighting a war we have no hope of winning.” Her arms dropped to her sides. Margaret had never seen her so defeated. “I can no longer fight for nothing.”

Margaret bit down on her lip. She would not cry again tonight; she would not allow it. Instead she ran her hands down her petticoat and cleared her throat. “I have become nothing to far too many people I have loved,” she whispered. “I never thought you would be one of them. At least not again.”

Judging by the look on Anna’s face, if Margaret had up and struck her it would have hurt her less. It was an unfair blow, she knew that, but she couldn’t help herself. With her fragile heart in pieces, Margaret swept out of the room.

“Meg, I—I didn’t…”

Margaret heard Anna hurrying after her as she strode towards the front door with no true destination in mind, allowing her feet to carry her to wherever she might end up.

“Margaret _please_ , I didn’t intend…Margaret!” Anna caught up with her at the door, catching the handle before Margaret could open it fully. “You are _not_ nothing to me, you could _never_ be nothing to me,” she sobbed.

Margaret felt a few traitorous tears escape her eyes.

“I only meant—”

“That I was not enough reason to stay,” Margaret interrupted.

 _“No!”_ Anna briefly shut her eyes as Margaret shifted impatiently, waiting for her to find the words she sought. “I wanted to say that there was nothing left here for either of us. Surely you know I could not leave you alone again.”

Margaret blinked at her. After Austin’s death, she had briefly considered leaving the only home she had ever known, the town that betrayed her as surely as it did her brother, but having no known relatives to go to and no money, she had no option but to stay. Until providence commanded otherwise.

“Where would you go?”

“ _We_ could go to Connecticut. Selah has family there.”

_Connecticut._

Margaret shook her head with a frown. “How could you just give up?”

Anna released the door handle. “How can I go on?”

Margaret took an involuntary step back, memories of herself sitting in a small, far too large, far too empty house rushing at her.

_How can I go on?_

A memory held in every corner, every object. A bible, eyeglasses, a toy horse. Bundles and bundles of letters. Memories brought back by every scent that faded as quickly as the warmth of summer.

_How can I go on?_

Raw, painful memories that brought tears to her eyes. Joyous memories that pulled at her heart, and hurt ever more fiercely, if only for the knowledge that there would never be more.

_How can I go on?_

_How can I do anything else?_

Margaret rolled her shoulders back. “You may be willing to accept defeat, Anna, but I am not. I did not journey this far to give up now.”

With that, she opened the door, and ran.

She ran north as far as she could, towards the Sound. Towards Connecticut.

When she could run no further, she picked her way down the grassy bank, sliding on the frozen earth to the water’s edge, and fell to her knees, her chest heaving more from emotion than exertion. The Sound stretched endlessly into the night in front of her, meeting the Connecticut shoreline somewhere in the fog, beyond her sight.

 _Connecticut_.

Her impossible dream. The symbol of the life she was denied.

For nearly four years she had been desperate to reach Connecticut, her hope of ever setting foot on the shore fraying with each passing year until it remained by a single thread. Now it was being readily offered to her and she wanted nothing more than to stay put. Perhaps it wasn’t Connecticut she longed so fiercely for after all. She leaned forward, plunging trembling hands into the familiar water, the iciness shocking up her arms to her chest and breaking through her panic. She would weep no more.

Margaret curled her hands into fists and screamed.

* * *

_December 28th, 1776_

Margaret smoothed her hands nervously over her petticoat as she prepared herself to walk the last stretch of land before reaching the garrison.

She had but a few days to see this plot through and was wholly averse to the dire consequences should she fail. Margaret squared her shoulders and marched forward to battle. Upon reaching the doors to the former church, however, she forced herself to lose the tension pulling through her body, forming her face into an unassuming expression. Anna’s determination had not swayed Major Hewlett – perhaps Margaret’s false innocence would. Knocking sharply, she waited to hear Hewlett’s call before opening the door and peering in. She was greeted by the surprised face of Major Hewlett, alone.

 _Just as I’d hoped_.

“Miss Roe!” The major sprang to his feet with a smile. “What a pleasant surprise.” He walked around his desk, motioning for her to step forward.

Margaret did just that, steadfastly ignored her surroundings and plastering her demure expression on her face as it threatened to slide into a scowl. She had not been inside the church since the incursion of the British and knew if she allowed her heart to break over the state of it, she would never be able to carry out her task.

She had been baptized here, as were her brother and her friends.

The pews where she had sat every Sunday with her father and brother, gone; they were replaced by chairs, a desk, _muskets_. The pulpit from which Reverend Tallmadge had preached hundreds of sermons, ripped from its station, an entire bloody _horse_ in its place.

She and Ben would have been married here. She and Ben _should_ have been married here.

This was a place of peace, of comfort. A building deemed sacred by the community for its religious and personal importance desecrated to be used for war was not merely inconsiderate.

It was cruel.

“I am sorry for the intrusion, I hope you don’t mind my stopping by uninvited, Major,” Margaret smiled.

“No, no, of course not! You are always welcome here, Miss Roe,” Hewlett declared.

“You are most kind, sir. I was wondering if I might have a word with you?”

“By all means.” Hewlett gestured to the chair in front of his desk and sat again once she made herself comfortable. “Now, what can I assist you with?”

Margaret took a deep breath. “I understand a few days ago, my housemate and dear friend, Anna Strong, paid you a visit.”

“She most certainly did,” Hewlett grumbled with a raised eyebrow. “Miss Roe, if you are here to also dispute the legality or morality of the attainder against Selah Strong, I—”

“I’m not!” Margaret interrupted. “Pardon me, Major, but not…not exactly, at least. I believe I’ve made my…loyalties clear to you?”

Hewlett nodded, his face losing some of its exasperation.

“I am not here to fight the attainder in any way – on the contrary, I am gladdened by it — some of it, that is.” At Hewlett’s intrigued expression, she leaned forward. “You see, my mother, God rest her soul, was a Quaker. While I do not share her faith, I was raised under many of the tenets, including a respect for the equality of all human life, and I believe it is God’s will that all those enslaved should be freed.”

“I could not agree more, Miss Roe.”

Margaret nodded. Now came the difficult part. “Major…might you permit me an impertinent question?”

Hewlett let out a confused chuckle as he shuffled some papers on his desk and set them to the side. “I admit to not knowing you well, Miss Roe, but I admit I find it difficult to believe you could be impertinent.”

_Yes, which was exactly my aim._

_You clod._

“Oh!” Margaret placed a hand on her cheek as if embarrassed. “Were my father still alive, I’m sure he would heartily disagree with you, sir,” she giggled.

“Ah! Were you somewhat of a recalcitrant child then?” he asked humorously.

“Indeed I was,” Margaret laughed truthfully. “I did manage to outgrow that, thankfully,” she tilted her head to the side. _Somewhat, anyways_. She sobered, allowing her nerves to discreetly work themselves out through her fingers fidgeting nervously amongst the folds of her petticoat. “In all seriousness, Major, I would like to talk with you about Mrs. Strong’s housemaid, Abigail. I understand you have found work for her in York City, in the home of an officer – a fine prospect to be sure,” she forced out. “But my inquiry is into why her son is to be left here in Setauket, rather than allowing the two to stay together.”

Hewlett sat straighter in his chair, all traces of humor having fled his face as he laced his fingers together and rested them on his desk. “The officer in question is in need of a housemaid, but I am unaware of any need for a servant boy and would not deign to send along another to feed and house.”

“I…understand your predicament,” Margaret lied, “but if the officer has no need of him, perhaps he could find work elsewhere, surely there would be opportunity for him in York City – his pay could be put towards his board. I…sir, you once told me if I had need of assistance to come to you, and that is what I am doing. I beg of you, on Abigail and Cicero’s behalf, to reconsider.” Seeing the hesitation on his face, Margaret decided to take a chance and leaned forward, reaching over the desk to rest her hand on his. “Major Hewlett,” she said softly, “have they not suffered enough?”

Hewlett’s eyes remained locked on her hand atop his. “You would accept my offer of help only by asking for the assistance on behalf of another?” he met her eyes with an indiscernible expression.

Margaret blinked, suddenly aware of her highly inappropriate action. She slowly drew her hand back to twist in her skirts again. “Despite certain difficulties, I find I am managing fine. Providence has blessed me more than I deserve. If that happens to change, however, I know the Lord will provide. I do not see why I should not come forward on behalf of those who have not been so fortunate,” she murmured to the floor, her nerves beginning to overwhelm her.

Until then, she had surprised herself with her composure – whether this stemmed from her conviction in seeing to her success or the feeling that she wasn’t truly herself around Hewlett, and so did not suffer the same anxieties she usually did, she didn’t know.

“Miss Roe, your generosity and faith become you,” Hewlett said gently. “And your compassion moves me.”

Margaret’s eyes snapped up to meet his. She scarcely dared to breathe. “Then you will…consider it?”

“I shall see it done.”

Her heart was pounding in her ears. _Could it truly have worked?_ After facing every advance over the past months with a subsequent retreat, Margaret was hesitant to accept a victory without an obvious caveat.

“Truly?” she whispered.

“Indeed.” Hewlett seemed to allow himself a small smile at her cautious optimism.

Margaret sprang to her feet, nearly dizzy with excitement, and clutched Hewlett’s hands again, forgetting to be bound by propriety. “I cannot thank you enough, sir,” she beamed at him. “You do not know what this will mean to them.” He returned her smile even as she abruptly pulled her hands away with an embarrassed expression and sank back into her chair. “I…I am sorry, please accept my apology, sir.”

Hewlett shook his head, waving away her stammers. “I would be remiss in my duty of helping to shape these colonies to the better if I were staunchly unwilling to admit to my own failings and seek to improve myself. ‘ _To move the world, we must move ourselves,’_ ” he quoted.

Margaret tilted her head at the familiar words. “Have you studied Socrates, Major?”

He blinked at her, his mouth ever so slightly open as Margaret belatedly realized her mistake. A simple blacksmith’s daughter turned laundress absolutely should not be able to recognize quotes from Greek philosophers. And now the major was surely curious as to the source of her knowledge.

“I have indeed, Miss Roe. Though I admit to not being a philosopher, I have always been fascinated by it and so have studied various systems, including the Socratic method.”

“‘ _The unexamined life is not worth living,_ ’” Margaret quoted with a small grin. No point in closing the barn door after the horses escaped. She did, however, dearly wish to suggest that perhaps the earliest American rebels were inspired by Socrates’ approach of questioning that which had been generally accepted as truth, and thus challenged the colonies’ devotion to the king. She managed to bite her tongue, however; not at all intending to undo her recent victory.

“Now I feel it is my turn for an impertinent question, Miss Roe, if you will permit me,” Hewlett stared at her inquisitively.

Margaret nodded, seeing no other choice.

“Where did a young woman such as yourself come upon the teachings of Socrates? I do not mean to insult your intellect, of course,” Hewlett quickly added, “but I must confess my curiosity as to the source of your knowledge.”

Margaret bit her lip.

_Couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you?_

“Well I…” She forced herself to smooth her hands over her rumpled skirt. “You see, I…”

How many more lies could she convince the major to believe?

“You needn’t feel ashamed of any education you may have received,” Hewlett interrupted her thoughts. “On the contrary, there are few here who share my affinity for erudition, sophistication; I find your wisdom most refreshing,” he smiled. “You said your mother was raised a Quaker, yes? Is that where your instruction began?”

“My mother was a Quaker.” Margaret stared at the major who had just unwittingly given her the answer she sought. Perhaps the best way forward was to tell him the truth. “Yes, my mother insisted on educating me in reading, writing, basic arithmetic, and scriptures in addition to the usual instruction girls receive from their mothers in homemaking and the more feminine pursuits. Although I took to my studies in a way my brother could never manage, purchasing books to further my education was often far beyond our means; I was, however, fortunate enough to have friends near my age in school who would share their books and lessons with me,” she hesitated as Hewlett continued to give her his undivided attention, held tight by her story.

“But surely the local schoolhouse did not study Greek philosophy?” he laughed.

“No, not at all,” she smiled. Once she’d reached comparable reading comprehension, it had been difficult enough to convince Caleb to do his own after-school reading rather than passing it off to her to read and summarize for him, Margaret couldn’t imagine what he would’ve done had he been confronted with Aristotle and Plato.

_Actually, he likely would’ve left for Greenland earlier._

Hewlett was still staring at her expectantly, so she cleared her throat as she tried to carefully formulate her words. This next part would need to be handled with the utmost care – no mistakes, or the cost would be too severe to contemplate.

“My learning had been quite limited for a number of months until my be—” she bit her tongue as a familiar echo of pain shot through her chest. “Until my _former_ betrothed managed to briefly return to Setauket after his first year at Yale.”

The major cleared his throat. “Your former betrothed?” he asked with a clearly false air of innocence.

Were the entire situation not so dire, Margaret would have laughed at his attempt. She dearly hoped she was a better actor than he.

“Major, this town circulates gossip faster than a York City paper, you needn’t pretend to be oblivious to my situation for my sake.” She bit back a grin at his suddenly flustered appearance.

“Of course I meant no offense, Miss Roe,” he stammered. “But yes, I was made aware of your…unfortunate connections.”

Margaret forced a smile. “Yes. Well, whenever my intended – though he was not such at the time – was able to visit during his schooling, he would give me any books he no longer had use of and instructions for exercises assigned by his professors, vastly broadening my education,” she finished in a rush, hoping to move beyond the difficult conversation.

“How fascinating. You know, I—”

Whatever he was about to say was cut off as one of the doors swung open, admitting a redcoat courier who greeted Margaret with a swift nod before turning to hand a bundle of letters to Hewlett.

“Ma’am. Your post, sir.”

“Yes, thank you, Ensign,” Hewlett waved him off, failing to hide his annoyance at the interruption.

Margaret greedily eyed the thick stack of correspondence, longing to tear into its contents for whatever information it may yield. She cocked her head as Hewlett quickly shuffled through the letters, presumably looking for anything of particular importance. Perhaps there was information she could find out without raising any suspicion.

“You know, Major, many have remarked to me on my journeys into Smithtown how they wished they could feel as safe as we must here in Setauket,” she lied, catching his attention away from the papers. “But I often think of what a burden it must be for you to be out here on your own with your men; half a day’s ride from York City and enemies just across the Sound,” she gave him a sympathetic glance.

Hewlett gave her a fond smile as he pulled a letter from the stack. “Do not worry yourself over me, Miss Roe. It is my greatest honor to fulfill my duties to King and country.”

“But surely it must worry you to have support no closer than York City?” Margaret prodded, giving him a wide-eyed look. “I know it worries me,” she whispered, “especially with that strange man escaping from the harbor last month…” she trailed off, looking at her hands.

“We will protect you, Miss Roe. And all the King’s citizens,” Hewlett smiled softly. “But if it eases your mind, know that here on Long Island there are also part of two companies stationed in Huntington and one at Oyster Bay.”

“It does,” Margaret sighed, her heart pounding furiously in her chest. “It does indeed.”

She had a new appreciation for Abe’s hesitance regarding spywork. Her fingers trembled; she had never felt such acute terror just from sitting and having a conversation, the threat of discovery looming menacingly behind every word, every glance.

It would be frighteningly easy for everything to go horribly wrong.

“Well, I thank you for your time, Major, and for your generosity; Abigail and Cicero will be beside themselves with joy,” Margaret smiled as she stood on shaky legs. “As I’m sure you have far more important things to do than indulge me in conversations of philosophy and education, I’ll leave you to your work.”

Hewlett quickly stood as well. “There _is_ always work to be done, but I must admit to finding far more enjoyment in philosophic discussion,” he smiled. “You are most welcome here – or at Whitehall – any time you wish.”

“How kind, thank you, sir,” Margaret bobbed a short curtsy, knowing unless she needed intelligence she’d sooner fling herself stark naked into the Sound in winter than take him up on his offer. “A pleasant rest of the day to you.”

“You as well, Miss Roe.”

Margaret gasped in a shaky breath of fresh air as she closed the door behind her, feeling as though she hadn’t inhaled since walking into the church. Something soft and cold kissed her cheek. She looked out over town to see millions of snowflakes descending upon Setauket, blanketing the dirty buildings with a purity created only by fresh snowfall. She allowed a small smile as she stepped onto the path.

She needed to get to Abe, tell him what she learned. She needed to return to Strong Manor.

She needed to hang a petticoat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New characters! Fights! Homesickness! Oaths sworn! Surprise intelligence! We're picking up the pace again!  
> I really love this chapter, it came very easily and I enjoyed writing it, and I'm even more excited for next chapter, it has one of my favorite scenes from this entire story in it!
> 
> Notes edit because I forgot to include this when I posted: I hope everyone’s ok with the direction I took with Anna for this chapter re: the attainder. I don’t entirely know what to make of her argument with Hewlett in the show, and what exactly her motives were considering she didn’t know at that point that the British would be assigning them jobs; so I did the best I could in a way I hope feels genuine to her character.
> 
> Quick fun fact: the intelligence Margaret gets was inspired by real intelligence gathered by John Clark and sent on to Ben in 1777, before the Culper Ring existed (as found in Alexander Rose's "Washington's Spies"). In truth, there were no troops in Setauket at the time, but "part of two companies at Huntington." 
> 
> I want to take a moment and thank everyone for the incredible response to this story, it has absolutely blown me away. This is actually my first full fic ever, and it started as a fun quarantine project that turned into something incredibly precious to me. Thank you especially to everyone who has left kudos and comments, ((a number of you have commented on multiple chapters which is just amazing!!)) they mean the absolute world to me. 
> 
> We're coming up fast on 500 hits, and when the story reaches that, I'll be posting a special extended sneak peek on my tumblr of whatever chapter is coming up, I'll keep doing that for big "hit" milestones. ((You can find me @ginfueledmusings))
> 
> Thank you thank you again, much love to you all.  
> Enjoy! - Gin


	8. Chapter Seven: Ties That Bind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Change ripples through the states at the dawn of a new year as the spies search for absolution. Anna and Margaret reach out to each other as Abigail imparts startling news upon her departure from Setauket. Ben fights for his life in New Jersey. A much-needed reunion with someone from her past gives Margaret hope as she unburdens her soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “But you — wrapped up in judgment, always regretting the past, cursing yourself, blaming yourself, asking ‘what if,’ ‘what if.’ ‘Life is cruel.’ ‘I wish I had died instead of.’ Well—think about this. [...] What if our badness and mistakes are the very thing that set our fate and bring us round to good?” Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch
> 
> “Believe that God loves you as you cannot conceive; that He loves you with your sin, in your sin.” Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov
> 
> “Come to me in the silence of the night; come in the speaking silence of a dream;” Christina Rossetti, Echo
> 
> “Listen, said the voice. This is your dream. I’m only stopping here for a little while. Don’t be afraid.” Mary Oliver, Banyan
> 
> “In those days I was starving for happiness. So, say it was both silly and serious. Say it was the first warm sting of possibility. Say I sensed the spreading warmth of joy.” Mary Oliver, The First Day
> 
> This chapter contains some date/sequence of events changes from the show.

_Chapter Seven_

Ties That Bind

_December 29th, 1776_

_Woodhull Farm, Setauket_

Margaret and Anna had not spoken in four days.

That is not to say that the pair had not exchanged any words at all – such a thing would have been quite difficult as they lived and worked together – they remained civil, if distant, and offered light, meaningless pleasantries, but had no true conversations. Not in the way they had their entire lives.

Margaret reflected more than once on how difficult it was for one’s best friend to be as stubborn and headstrong as oneself. It was because of this that she found herself walking down the road to Abraham’s farm alone, having neglected to inform Anna even of the intelligence that had fallen into her hands, let alone her plan to pay a visit to their favorite cabbage farmer and surreptitiously bring him up to date.

“ _Me and my plans_ ,” Margaret muttered snidely to herself, listening to the crunch of her feet in the light dusting of snow and distant song of winter birds. She sighed. She had forgiven Anna’s words days ago – she knew they were said in fear and exhaustion, but her bitterness was something welled up deep inside, from far before her and Anna’s quarrel. In truth, she was growing rather tired of it.

As Abraham’s farmhouse came into view, Margaret realized this would be her first time inside it. Of course, she passed by with every trip to Smithtown, but between their falling-out several years before and passionate differences in their families’ politics, an invitation had never been extended for a visit. Most of her journey from Strong Manor to the farm had been spent deep in thought, coming up with a reason for her visit that would not only appease Mary, but also hopefully give her an opportunity speak with Abe alone, or at least to write down her intelligence and give it to him to pass on. After much deliberation, she had finally decided she would give the pretense of being there to speak with Abe about certain legality concerns Anna had with the attainder – of course this was entirely falsified, but she could say she wanted to ask a friend, someone who would speak plainly with her and explain it all.

Pausing only a moment to remove the hood of her cape from her head, Margaret knocked firmly on the door and…waited. She knocked again, louder. And waited.

“Abraham?” she finally called out, trying to peer through a window to see signs of life inside. As she could just scarcely make out a fire in the kitchen hearth but nothing else, she turned to round the corner of the house and look through another window when she noticed the sound of someone briskly walking towards her through the snow from beyond the house.

“Abraham?” she called again, picking her way towards the footsteps only to collide with the very man she’d been looking for as they both turned the corner.

“Oh!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Abraham steadied Margaret by her elbows as she slipped in the snow.

“No, no, I wasn’t looking.”

“Wait, Meg? What’re you doing here?” he blinked at her.

She gave him a wry smile. “You aren’t going to believe this.”

* * *

“Let me get this straight…”

“Hmm.”

“Hewlett – _Major_ Hewlett of the _King’s_ army – just…told you the locations of other regiments on Long Island?”

“Mhm,” Margaret murmured her affirmation.

“Because he discovered you…you’d read _Socrates_ , and then you told him _you were frightened_ ,” Abe sputtered in a poor imitation of Margaret’s voice as he paced around the small kitchen.

Margaret smirked up at him from her seat next to the fire and took a small sip of her coffee. “Well, he wished to comfort poor Miss Roe, the harmless Tory orphan abandoned by her rebel family and friends – who is, of course, the only Miss Roe I’ve allowed him to know.”

“Good thing too. If he knew you any better, he’d have never gone for such an act,” he scoffed, taking a drink of his own coffee.

“Which is precisely why I am now grateful for my poor social standing, no one suspects a thing,” Margaret grinned.

“Imagine, thinking of you as harmless and innocent,” Abe teased.

“Yes, all right, thank you, Abraham,” Margaret narrowed her eyes.

He held his hands aloft. “All I’m saying is that I remember quite well a time when you tried to debate my father on Aristotelian virtue ethics the very same day you told me I should walk with Anna to a place you knew with a “lovely view of the water,” knowing full well a territorial family of robins were nesting in the tree above.”

Margaret was entirely unsuccessful in holding in her snort of laughter at the memory of the prank she’d played at the age of sixteen, when she was surely too old for that sort of thing. Anna and Abe had emerged from the woods in quite the state – feathers stuck in their clothes and more than a few scratches on their arms. She saw Abe bore her no true ill will for the incident, however, as he joined her laughter.

“Yes, well, that was quite a long time ago,” she smiled.

Abe’s grin dimmed as his eyes skimmed the room. “A lifetime ago.”

Margaret sobered as she followed his eyes and thoughts. She glanced over her shoulder at the door. “You’re certain Mary won’t be back any time soon?”

Abe straightened. “Yes.” He walked away from her as he drained the last of his coffee. “Since you’re here, you should know that I’ve looked into it and there’s no evidence that Simcoe will be back anytime soon, Hewlett hasn’t received word of a prisoner exchange.”

Margaret furrowed her brow at his sudden change of subject. “And how might you have come across that piece of information?”

“I told you, I’ve looked into it.”

Abe’s knowledge of the incident with Simcoe hung squarely on Margaret’s head; she knew he held the bastard in the utmost contempt, as they all did, but his not wishing to tell her his means of “looking into it” didn’t sit right with her.

“…yes, but _how_?”

Abe sharply set his cup down on the table. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?”

“Yes!” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, has Anna hung a petticoat?” he asked in a much quieter voice.

“Abe—”

“Has she?”

“Yes—well, I did. Anna doesn’t know about any of this. Actually,” she quickly continued as Abe turned to her with a confused look, “part of the reason I’m here is to ask a favor. I hung the petticoat yesterday and went to the cove before coming here, but it’s a fair distance for me and I won’t be able to go every day and look for Caleb, I was wondering if you could?”

“What do you mean Anna doesn’t know?”

“The handkerchiefs are up for the third cove.”

Abe walked towards her. “What do you mean—”

“Will you go?”

“Yes. What do you—”

“Anna and I had a…disagreement.” Margaret sighed. “No, not a disagreement. Truthfully, we fought. More fiercely, more…viciously than we ever have before. It was Christmas, after she spoke to you that night.” She fiddled with the empty cup in her hands. “She’s lost, Abe. She’s scared. Her life as she knew it has been entirely upended, _again_. I know only too well how she must feel, and yet I—” her voice cracked. She swiped her fingers under her eyes to stem the threatening tears. “She said she wanted to leave. That the war was finished, that there was nothing worth fighting for. And I was so consumed by bitterness, by betrayal, that I didn’t truly listen to what she was saying. And to what she wasn’t saying. That she is terrified, and that is why she lashed out. That she is utterly without hope. And that she needed me to reassure her, just as she’s done for me. And I… _Christ,_ Abe, I didn’t.”

A brief silence fell over the kitchen.

“You and Anna have fought before—”

“Not like this,” Margaret shook her head.

“All right, not like this,” Abe conceded, “but near enough – I remember your arguments well. Talk to her.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin.” She sniffed loudly as Abe sank into the chair across from her.

“I imagine an apology wouldn’t hurt?”

Margaret gave him a halfhearted nod.

“Look, Meg,” Abe sighed, “I haven’t known what to say to Anna for years now, so I don’t know what you expect of me. She’s got one hell of a temper – as do you,” he added wryly, “but the love you bear each other is…” his brow furrowed as his voice grew quiet. “The love you bear is stronger than this. And I’m sure she feels the same way you do. Just start talking, the rest will take care of itself.”

Margaret sighed again, slumping down in her seat. “Were it only that simple.”

Abe scoffed as he gazed into the fire, appearing more despondent than he had in…well, since the last time she saw him. “Nothing’s simple anymore.”

* * *

_New Years’ Eve, 1776_

“I suppose this is farewell, then.”

Margaret and Anna both nodded at Abigail as her and Cicero’s belongings were loaded into the coach set to take them to York City.

The tension between the two friends had slowly begun to ease over the past days, despite the inability of either to be the first to extend an olive branch. Margaret had tried, truly she had, but with the upheaval of the Strong Estate, she had found few occasions in which she and Anna had time to seek one another out alone. Now they were out of time. The next morning Anna would either be moving to Connecticut or following Margaret to her parents’ house, and Margaret was wholly unaware of which would be her path.

“Would you just look at the handsome man we’re sending off,” Margaret teased as Cicero ducked his head bashfully. “You’ll have to fend off the York City ladies with a stick.”

“Don’t I know it,” Abigail laughed. “He’s grown up far too fast for my liking.”

Anna smiled. “You just remember you’re never to grown to stop minding your mother.”

“I know, Miss Anna,” Cicero grinned.

“Well come here, then,” Margaret pulled him in for tight hug. “You be a good lad and look after your mother.”

Cicero nodded as the two separated and held on just as tightly to Anna as she too stepped forward for a farewell embrace.

“You go wait by the wagon while I say goodbye to Miss Anna and Miss Margaret,” Abigail instructed. “Now then,” she turned back to the two younger women when the boy was out of earshot, “I don’t know what has gotten into the two of you, but you best leave it behind right now.”

Both women looked away at the well-deserved chastisement.

Abigail glanced surreptitiously at the redcoat sitting in the driver’s seat of the coach before stepping closer and lowering her voice to a murmur. “You are _surrounded_ by enemies. If you don’t protect each other and trust each other, you have nothing.”

Looking over in shock, Margaret could see her own fear and confusion reflected in Anna’s wide, brown eyes. “Abigail…”

“I know everything that goes on in this house. I’ve heard the two of you whispering about things you should know nothing about, I’ve seen the fear in your eyes anytime a redcoat comes near. I know what you do with the laundry,” Abigail hissed at Anna, “hanging petticoats to summon the Brewster boy. The one fighting for the rebels. And I know you smuggle goods to them when you go to Smithtown,” she nodded to Margaret. “I saw you both that night in the barn, over a month ago. The two of you, Mr. Caleb, and Mr. Abe, all together like when you were children. But what you were doing was no childish thing.”

Margaret gulped in the thin night air crackling with uncertainty as her heart pounded in her ears. “Who else knows?”

“No one.”

“Abigail, _please_ , swear to me you speak true.” Margaret knew her voice bordered on desperate, but the stakes were far too high for anything else.

“I swear it,” Abigail gave them a reassuring nod. “ _No one_. You best keep it that way.”

Margaret felt Anna’s hand fumble with her cape, her friend’s icy fingers finding her hand and clutching it tightly; Margaret squeezed Anna’s hand in return, the familiar gesture nearly bringing her to tears as she anchored herself to Anna’s grasp.

“Now listen to me carefully,” Abigail murmured, giving the ensign seated in the carriage another sideways glance. “They say I’m to work for a Major John André . I will cook, clean, and come to know his secrets like no other.” Abigail grabbed Margaret’s free hand. “You have given me a gift the likes of which I can never repay,” her eyes wandered to Cicero placing his satchel in the carriage.

“Abby, no—”

“But what I can do,” Abigail continued, cutting off Margaret’s protest, “is laundry.”

“Abigail…” Anna gasped.

“Hurry up now!”

All three sets of eyes darted to the soldier calling impatiently for Abigail as Cicero stood nearby, regarding them with curious expression.

“Abigail, you owe me no debt, I did it gladly—”

“I know,” she nodded, resolute. “Nevertheless, you helped me. Now I shall help you. If you come to me in the city, and if it is safe, I will tell you what I’ve learned, do you understand?” Abigail took a step back towards her awaiting carriage.

“Yes,” Margaret breathed, eyes impossibly wide.

“ _Only_ if it is safe for me and my boy; I’ll not risk our lives for a cause I care nothing about,” Abigail hissed.

Anna reached towards Abigail, gripping her hand and uniting the three women in a circle for the barest moment. “Only if it’s safe,” she repeated.

With that, Abigail gave them one last strained smile, loaded herself and Cicero into the carriage, and disappeared into the night, leaving Margaret and Anna alone.

An uncomfortable silence filled the air as their eyes remained fixed on the road leading away from Strong Manor.

“I don’t want you to go to Connecticut,” Margaret blurted out, turning to Anna as tears threatened to escape her lashes.

“I don’t want to go to Connecticut,” Anna sniffled, wiping her eyes as she turned to Margaret. “Not without you.”

“Oh, Annie,” Margaret threw her arms around Anna, the two of them holding on to the only stability they had. “Please forgive me. I never should hav—”

“No! _I_ should be asking for your forgiveness,” Anna interrupted. “I didn’t mean to lash out at you, I was frightened—”

“I know.” Margaret pulled back from their embrace and cradled Anna’s face in her hands. “Christ, Anna, I know you were frightened, you had every right to be. You _have_ every right to be. And I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am I wasn’t understanding the way I should have been. I failed you.”

Anna rested her hands over Margaret’s. “Just as I have failed you before.”

“What a pair we are,” Margaret scoffed as the two women slid back into each other’s arms, entwined like two trees in the forest whose branches grew too close together to ever again be separated.

“I love you so, Meg,” Anna murmured, her words muffled by the hood of Margaret’s cloak. “You’re all I have.”

Margaret tightened her arms, though it was scarcely possible. “And I you, Anna. We have each other. And we have met every challenge to come before us. That won’t change.”

Eventually, they reluctantly separated, both retrieving their handkerchiefs with a quiet laugh.

“I did what you said,” Anna began, catching Margaret’s attention. “I sold the tavern to Mr. Dejong. He gave me a relatively fair price, and I kept a copy of the deed like you asked.” She gave Margaret a small smile. “It was a good plan.”

“ _My_ plan?” Margaret teased, profoundly glad they would be able to put that horrible night in the past where it belonged. “I beg your pardon, did you say _my_ plan was sound?”

“Yes, all right,” Anna good-naturedly rolled her eyes. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to keep your job there, though. Dejong told me he refuses to pay for two barmaids when one will do.” She quickly continued as Margaret felt a stricken expression overtake her face. “I’m sorry, I know I was never able to pay you much, but I’m sure you’ll feel the loss of income—”

“Heavens, Anna, I’m not concerned about that. How will you manage alone? At times it was nearly too much work for the _two_ of us to handle.”

Anna sighed. “I’ll get by, I suppose. It would help if I…if I never had to make supper?” she supposed tentatively. “I’ve seen you sneaking things out of the house all week to sell, I have more packed with my things. Everything is in my bedchamber, ready to be taken to your home. That is…if I am still welcome?”

“Did you ever for a moment believe you wouldn’t be?” Margaret exclaimed. “Actually, Anna, I…” she bit her lip. “I don’t know if I could live there alone again.”

Anna nodded. “I understand.”

Margaret’s heart felt leaden in her chest. She glanced away. “There are just…there are too many empty chairs.”

Anna ran a hand down her arm. “I know, love.” She ducked her head to catch Margaret’s eye. “We have each other,” she echoed.

Margaret allowed a small smile. She straightened her shoulders, linking her arm in Anna’s and strolling out with her onto the snow-laden green in front of the house.

“Are you going to tell me what that’s all about?” Anna nodded to the petticoat hanging on the line in front of them, fluttering in the breeze. “I’ve been dying of curiosity for days now.”

Margaret hesitated. There was so much to talk over. “It’s getting late now, why don’t we discuss everything tomorrow once we’re in my parents’ house? I’ll tell you about the petticoat, and we’ll try and figure out a new signal once and for all – we never did decide upon one. We should also inform Abe of your staying and ask about the signal, he may have an idea we haven’t thought of,” she rambled through the list appearing in her mind.

“Indeed,” Anna murmured, a thoughtful look on her face.

The two slowed as they reached the crest of the bank leading down to the water. Margaret took a deep breath of the salty air as an unforgiving wind sent a shiver down her spine. “’Tis almost a new year, Anna. 1776 shall finally be behind us. Who knows what 1777 will bring?”

* * *

_New York City Hall_

“At least he isn’t a traitor like you.”

Shocked silence followed the statement. The detestable General had been properly charmed and liquored up, now it was time to turn the tables on him.

“I beg your pardon?” Lee demanded, clearly affronted as well as panicked.

“See, you gave up your men for thirty pieces of silver,” Robert Rogers added casually. “A Connecticut dragoon unit filled with apple-cheeked young boys, fresh from their mother’s bellies,” he continued with no small amount of enjoyment at the increasingly disturbed expression growing on Miss Endicott’s face, “fighting for freedom. Fighting for _you_ ,” he growled to Lee. “And you gave them up to John André . And André fed them to me,” he popped another grape in his mouth. “And we slaughtered them. Like dogs.”

Rogers relished in the complete reversal of the atmosphere in the room; Lee was precisely where he wanted him, his face said it all. Time for the kill.

“One of those dragoons got away. You are going to give me his name.”

Rogers could see the indecision on Lee’s face as he hesitated, Miss Endicott shifting uncomfortably. What right did this honorless fool have to hesitate? He had already seen to the deaths of dozens of poor lads, what was one more to a man like him?

“Benjamin Tallmadge.”

Rogers stared blankly at Lee, his mind far from where he sat. He never forgot a name. Something tugged at his mind…he had heard that name before, he _knew_ he had.

_**“…her betrothed, Benjamin Tallmadge, has yet to send for her.”** _

He narrowed his eyes. _Benjamin Tallmadge._

_**“He’s also no schoolteacher, not anymore.”** _

The little hamlet of absolutely no importance. The devious judge so eager to turn his neighbors over to the noose. The name that had quickly been dismissed as unimportant when Joyce’s murderer was found.

There was no way he could’ve known the barely intriguing absent rebel from Long Island was the very dragoon he had been relentlessly searching for.

 _ **“…her**_ betrothed _, Benjamin Tallmadge, has yet to send for her.”_

 _Her betrothed._ He never forgot a name. He also never forgot a face. Bright blue eyes and dark hair. A quiet voice and unsteady hands. Someone with something to hide.

_**“Her intended is a schoolteacher in Connecticut.”** _

_**“Her**_ former _intended.”_

_**“You don’t know that!”** _

A small smirk spread across his face as he abruptly pushed himself away from the table, startling the other two.

Robert Rogers was going back to Setauket.

* * *

Margaret admired the innumerable stars glimmering in the clear sky as she trudged through the few inches of snow Setauket had managed to accumulate over the past week. With Anna rather impulsively deciding to pay a visit to the Woodhull farm, Margaret was left entirely alone in the vast manor. She had spent a short time idly checking that all her belongings were packed before sitting on her bed, staring blankly out the window. The large hall clock chiming the eleventh hour was what finally spurred her into action as she shot up from the bed and snatched up the warm outerwear she had removed only a short while before; she secured her cloak around her neck and tugged her mitts up her arms as she bounded down the stairs. It was the last hour of the worst year of her life (so far, anyways) and she’d be damned if she was going to spend it alone in a borrowed bedchamber, the sounds of British officers getting drunk in her friend’s drawing room drifting up from the floor below.

The Sound appeared as Margaret crested the top of a small hill on a piece of well-known property, her destination in sight beyond the small two-story house. As she hurried past the few windows left unshuttered, she gave the familiar building a sad smile, clearly remembering a time when warmth would have spilled onto the grounds from the home – as much from the love shared by its residents as the numerous illuminated windows.

Margaret slowed as she approached a large oak tree a short distance from the house, the tops of its branches reaching high enough towards the heavens to remain unclimbed by even the most daring of youths who had spent many a day in its shade. She rounded the trunk until she reached the exact spot she was searching for – where the roots had grown up out of the ground to form the perfect place to nestle in, mostly out of sight of the house and – with one’s back to the tree – overlooking the Sound. She picked up her skirts to carefully step over the roots, gently running her fingers over a familiar inscription carved into the bark, weathered from time but clear in the bright moonlight.

_BT + MR_

She sighed, pressing a kiss to the rough bark. She moved some of the snow away from the roots with her shoe and gathered her skirts, crouching down and wedging herself into the crook where root and tree connected. She leaned back, resting her head against the tree as she had so many times before, and closed her eyes. She had taken her time walking there from the Strong estate and it was surely nearing midnight. 1777 was almost upon her, and there was no place she’d rather be.

Within reason.

The waves quietly shushing against the steep bank was a lullaby as tender and familiar to Margaret as her own mother’s voice; they slowly, gently pushed her into a light doze as memories of the last time she had visited the tree drifted through her mind.

He had come to surprise her for her birthday — paying to cross the Belt aboard a small boat to avoid traveling through York City as the war grew stronger and closer each month. It was to her absolute astonishment that beautiful day in May to arrive home after delivering laundry and hear a short, quiet laugh from her brother; what used to be a familiar sound hadn’t been heard in months. Breath caught in her throat, Margaret had stepped into the comfortable but modest drawing room, basket slipping from loosened fingers as she found Austin seated across a game of draughts from an achingly familiar, breathtakingly beautiful man. One whose face she had not been allowed to gaze upon in far too long.

Ben froze for only a heartbeat as her basket clattered to the floor, their eyes locking, oblivious to anything but each other. Air flooded Margaret’s body, feeling as though it was the first true breath she’d drawn in a year. He sprang to his feet and crossed the room in several quick strides, blue eyes bright as he _beamed_ at her and they met in a fierce embrace, Austin sidling out of the room with a knowing smile. Neither was aware of how long they held one another as identical tears slipped from two sets of blue eyes. They swayed lightly on their feet, hands sliding across shoulders and cupping around a face or behind a head, kisses ranging from long and heated to soft brushes on the cheek as they savored each other’s warmth.

He had stayed for only two days; any longer would have been unwise with his school awaiting him, and the risk of traveling anywhere growing stronger with the progressing war (though Margaret had quite a different view on the subject, and rather encouraged him to stay longer, to which Ben responded by telling her to simply leave with him). The time constraint weighing heavily on their minds, they ensured those days were well spent — first talking about everything and nothing while sitting outside in the sun, enjoying the spring day in the shade of the very tree at which they had spent hours through their youth and later their budding romance, and the next day enjoying a large celebratory supper with Austin, Reverend Tallmadge, and Anna and Selah.

The meal was to be much larger than Margaret usually set out, and Anna readily agreed to help Margaret with the cooking, allowing Ben to spend some time alone with his father. Anna offered to hold the celebration at Strong Manor, but Margaret insisted she would host it at home, hoping that livening up the quiet house would bring a smile to her brother’s face. And so the night of Margaret’s twenty-second birthday, the Roe home looked and felt to Margaret brighter and warmer than it had in some time, six people merrily crowded around the small table, elbows knocking as they ate a simple but delicious meal that nearly brought Margaret to tears as she surveyed the gathering, realizing the food tasted better simply because it was eaten together.

Each of the six appreciating the company of like-minded people with similar political inclinations, the conversation often turned to the war, but Anna graciously stepped in on occasion to keep the discussion from becoming too heavy, knowing they were all in need of an amicable evening. Ben gave a heartfelt toast to Margaret, which was heartily resounded around the table, bringing a blush to her cheeks.

Their goodbyes were said behind Margaret’s home the morning after the supper as Ben made his way to the docks. It was long and bittersweet, holding each other until forced to let go as Ben pleaded with her once more to change her mind, saying he’d stay another day or two to see to everything. But she hadn’t learned. She never learned. And she said no.

Ben understood, though. Ben always understood.

They spoke promises to each other, terrified they would be broken by circumstances beyond their control. They parted with a final vow they had spoken time and again over the years. A vow neither of them knew the origin of; something that had evolved over their numerous goodbyes until it became the last thing they said each time they were forced to turn away. A vow they would keep or die trying.

_I will see you again._

Five weeks later, Margaret received a letter from Connecticut by way of special courier.

The sound of snow crunching by her side sent Margaret hurtling back to the present as her eyes flew open and she let out a strangled gasp at the imposing figure in front of her illuminated by the lantern in his hand.

“Reverend Tallmadge!”

“Happy New Year, Margaret,” he gave her a small smile. “It is good to see you, child; it’s been quite some time. Why don’t you get up out of the snow and you can tell me why you’ve been trespassing on my property.”

* * *

By the time they entered the inviting entry way of the house, Margaret’s shoulders were shaking from the cold, and her hands from nerves.

“While I certainly appreciate your hospitality, Reverend, you needn’t have bothered. I feel guilty for intruding on your evening after I…well, after I intruded on your land,” she finished in a whisper as she removed her cloak and placed it in the Reverend’s waiting hand. She chose to leave her mitts on, hoping they would combat the chill remaining in her bones as well as provide her mind some measure of security…or reassurance perhaps. She was not yet laid entirely bare.

“Think nothing of it. You’re giving an old man some company at the start of a new year, if nothing else,” he replied lightly as he hung her cloak on one of several empty pegs by the door. “The fire’s stoked in the drawing room – I’ll put the kettle on, you go sit. I trust you remember the way?”

He turned back to her with a genial expression as he paused in the kitchen doorway, but Margaret could see the tightness beneath it. It brought her some measure of comfort to know he was as unsure as she was.

“I do,” Margaret tried to a smile as she uneasily stepped past him into the hall.

Her breath caught as she turned into the drawing room, a roaring fire blazing in the hearth as promised. The room was empty. Margaret was alone.

A settee, chairs, a writing desk, bookshelves crammed with tomes and keepsakes all filled the room, largely unchanged from the last time she’d seen it, and yet…

The room was empty.

She knew it would be, she did, but some part of her – some foolish, naïve part that still believed in things like hope – thought just for a heartbeat that she would turn the corner and he’d be there. He’d be at the desk writing or sitting in his favorite chair engrossed in a book, just as she’d found him a hundred times before.

But he wasn’t.

The room was empty.

And Margaret was alone.

She took tentative steps forward, tamping down on the recollections of times past threatening to devour her. She had learned to survive the memories in her parent’s home, but was wholly unprepared for the assault on her senses by the Tallmadge house. She trailed her fingers along the back of the settee as she walked towards the fire, a small change in the room’s décor catching her eye and drawing her towards it like a moth to a flame. Stopping in front of the fire grate, she reached trembling fingers up to one of the frames atop the mantle, pulling it down with all the tenderness she possessed.

As Reverend Tallmadge’s footsteps rang out from the hall and stopped in the doorway, Margaret slowly turned her back to the hearth, a hand pressed to her lips. She couldn’t manage to wrench her eyes from the frame as a tear escaped her lashes, splashing on the glass covering the remarkably well-done sketch of Ben’s face staring back at her.

“I don’t…I don’t remember seeing this before,” Margaret whispered, looking up to see a mournful expression on the Reverend’s face, tea tray in hand.

They stood there for a moment in silence; Margaret, Reverend Tallmadge, and Ben’s shadow between them.

Finally, the Reverend stepped forward, breaking the spell as he rounded the settee, Margaret sinking onto the adjacent chair – _Ben’s chair_ , she realized idly – with her eyes locked once more on the drawing.

“It used to be upstairs,” the Reverend told her softly as he set the tray on the small table between the settee and Margaret’s chair, “both his and Samuel’s. They sat next to the portrait I had of Susannah—er, Mrs. Tallmadge, God rest her soul.”

Margaret glanced up at the mantle again, registering the contents of the other two frames. A twin to Ben’s, containing Samuel’s face portrayed in the same sketched style, and a slightly larger, more elaborate one holding a fully painted portrait of Ben’s mother, who had died when they were but fourteen.

“I spend most of my time in this room now, though, so a few months ago I decided to move them all here, where I could see them more often,” the Reverend continued, pouring two cups of coffee. “In a way, I suppose it’s helped me grow accustomed to the quietness of the house. Of course, the house has been quiet for some time – since both boys went off to school – but it is…” he paused, his brow furrowing. “The quiet is… _different_ , now,” he finished sadly.

“I know what you mean,” Margaret agreed, thinking of how her parents’ house had turned from a home to something akin to a mausoleum seemingly overnight.

Glancing over at the quiet sounds of silver clinking against glass, she saw Reverend Tallmadge place a spoon of sugar and a splash of milk in the cup she could only assume to be intended for her, as the other cup was left black. Warmth fought to rise in her chest at the simple but thoughtful act even as it was quashed by embarrassment when she realized she should have offered to serve. She shot up out of her seat to gingerly place the precious frame back on the mantle before returning to her seat and accepting the offered teacup with a smile and deep blush.

“I’m sure you do,” he responded gently. “I was very glad to hear tell of your moving to Strong Manor to be with Anna, I’m sure it has done the both of you a great deal of good.”

“It has.” Margaret looked up with palpable relief to find no pity on the good Reverend’s face. Only understanding; sympathy.

She was so very tired of the looks following her wherever she went, even from Anna – pity, certainly, but from her it was accompanied by no small amount of guilt. Though she had never told her, sometimes it made Margaret feel as though she wanted to put on a braver face to lead Anna to believe she was all right…and hopefully stop the glances sent her way that made her feel ever more broken.

It was a weight lifted from her shoulders to be met with no such treatment that night.

“Margaret,” Reverend Tallmadge began almost tentatively as he set his teacup aside, “I wanted…I’m glad you came here tonight.”

Margaret had never heard such hesitance from the normally resolute gentleman. She had always found great comfort in the steadfast nature of the Reverend, as did his other parishioners; it was more than a little disconcerting to hear him waver.

“That is, I’m glad to have the opportunity to apologize to you.”

Mortification flooded through her at his statement as she turned to set her teacup on the table as well. “Oh, no, Reverend it should be I apologizing to you! After my abominable behavior that day—”

“No, Margaret,” he held up a hand, a stern expression on his face. “Please, I’ll hear no such talk. You were grieving, dear girl, a loss so tremendous it should be felt by no one. The last of your family was taken from you, violently, cruelly, and so soon after your parents. And if that were not enough…” the Reverend trailed off as his eyes slid to the mantle, his face softening. “Well…I understand if I was not someone you wished to see at the time.”

Even with his reassurances, Margaret couldn’t help the shame she felt at her actions on the day they spoke of, a week after her brother’s death when the Reverend knocked on her door, inquiring after her. “But I sent you away without the courtesy of even opening the door when you only had the best of intentions. I—Reverend, I _shouted_ at you. And afterwards I was so ashamed I couldn’t even bring myself to go to you and apologize, as I should have. I cannot forgive myself for that,” she whispered, knitting her fingers together.

“But I can. And I do. And now I must ask you to forgive me for being a cowardly old man and not seeking you out again after some time had passed to ensure your well-being.”

Margaret furrowed her brow at his words. “There is nothing to forgive, sir. You _did_ ensure my well-being. It was you who left the baskets on my doorstep, was it not?”

The first anonymous delivery of food had been left the day the Reverend attempted to call on her, and subsequently appeared every once in a while, the contents ranging from assorted vegetables to cuts of meat. His generosity had been a godsend, preventing her from going hungry on more than one occasion – and saving her from having to make a decision she desperately wished not to.

The Reverend glanced down. “It was. I hoped if you couldn’t accept my company, perhaps you could accept offerings to ease your way – especially if they were left anonymously.”

“They did – ease my way, that is – they kept me alive. I will never be able to repay your kindness.”

“I don’t wish repayment. I only wish I had done more.” He handed her teacup back to her after topping it off, picking up his own again as well. “Shall we now let it be the past?”

Margaret nodded, cheers-ing him with her teacup and returning the small grin he gave her. She slowly sipped at her coffee as a comfortable silence fell over them for a moment; her eyes wandered back to the hearth, taking in the portraits on the mantle. She dearly wished she had been gifted with artistic skill – she’d make countless drawings of everyone she’d ever loved. Everyone she’d ever lost.

In her parents’ house was a portrait of all four of them – her parents, herself, and Austin – from when she was a baby, almost a year old. Her father had apparently insisted upon it, and she was endlessly glad he did; though her parents were younger than she could ever remember them, she was unrecognizable, and Austin was a mere boy of six, it was the only physical remembrance she had of their faces. It sat on their mantle still to that day, covered by a black piece of cloth.

“It truly is a remarkable likeness,” Margaret murmured, captivated by the obvious care put into the pencil strokes of Ben’s sketch. “They captured his eyes.”

Reverend Tallmadge paused before answering her. “It was done by Walter Havens a year or so ago.”

“Mr. Havens?” Margaret turned to him, astonished.

“Yes. Not many know it, but he’s quite the artist. As you can plainly see, of course,” the Reverend smiled. “I didn’t have any sort of portraiture of the boys as adults, so I commissioned him to do sketches of them when they were both here in ‘75.”

Margaret closed her eyes with a sigh, regret clawing at her chest. “When we were supposed to get married.”

She startled at the Reverend placing a hand on her wrist.

“No one blamed you for wanting to care for your mother after she fell ill, Margaret. Everyone understood. _Everyone_ ,” he repeated pointedly, raising his eyebrows at her. “In fact, it was quite a selfless act, to put off your own happiness and tend to her so your father and brother could keep the smithy running.”

“And look where it got me,” Margaret muttered bitterly. She forced out a heavy breath as the Reverend withdrew his hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—I just…I wish I hadn’t insisted on waiting for my mother to improve. We could have still married, spent most of the summer together, then he could have gone on to Connecticut while I stayed here for my mother. It may not have been conventional to separate so soon after marriage, but when have either of us cared about that? I just thought if we gave it a bit more time…

But then a year later my parents have died and I shouldn’t have waited and the smithy is gone and Austin just _sits_ there, he just…he just sits there. And then Ben comes back. And he begs me to marry him then and there and I didn’t learn, I didn’t _learn_ and I put it off again and I told him to give me the summer – I’d see to it that Austin was better or taken care of and we’d marry the beginning of autumn,” she gasped in a shaky breath, halting her rambling that had grown faster and louder as she went on. “I told him to give me the summer,” she whispered. “And he gave me a _month_.” She abruptly slammed her teacup back onto the small table, springing from her seat as her legs itched to pace.

The Reverend placed his teacup down with considerably less force and leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees with his hands folded in front of him. “In truth, I cannot speak for Benjamin. But I know my son, Margaret. And there is no doubt in my mind that he wanted was to protect you. He must’ve thought you’d be safer and happier here than with the army, and _yes_ ,” the Reverend continued as Margaret scoffed, “he may have been incorrect in that. But his intent was good, of that I am sure.”

“I don’t…I wish he—I just—” Margaret threw up her hands in frustration as she strode back and forth in front of the fireplace. “Why has all this happened to me?!” she finally shouted, hating the quiver in her voice. “I tried for so long to do what’s right. You said it yourself, I put off my own happiness for my mother, then I did it again for my brother. I have attended church faithfully, I’ve prayed and asked forgiveness and mercy, I’ve tried to help those I can as He wants us to. Is that not enough to make up for the things I’ve done?” she vaguely noticed the Reverend’s concerned expression in her periphery as she continued pacing. “Because I have. I have done awful, dishonorable things in this year alone. I have lied – countless times, to my friends as well as my enemies; I have broken oaths, I have stolen. I—”

She paused in her step as she turned her thoughts deep within to the darkest recesses of her soul, beyond even what she had already admitted. Beyond her regret and guilt, beyond her longing and frustration, beyond her pain. She had thrown opened the floodgates – she couldn’t close them now if she wanted to.

“But what I am most ashamed of – of everything I have said and done, and everything I have _not_ – what I am most ashamed of is that…much of it, anyways…I would do it again.” Margaret stared resolutely into a corner of the room, refusing to meet the Reverend’s eyes as her breath quickened. “There are any number of things I would do differently if afforded the opportunity, as would anyone, but they are decisions that would lead only to my own happiness. I have no intention of ceasing my…my transgressions any time soon. I have done what needed to be done because I could. Because there was no one else to do it. And I can’t bring myself to regret that.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “Therefore, what if any amount of piety isn’t enough? What if any sacrifice I’ve made is only the beginning? What if He knew long ago I would fall from grace? What if…” she drew a ragged breath. “ _What if it’s my fault?_ What if everything that’s happened to me, to everyone I love, is the price for my sin?”

Silence followed her words, the only sounds in the room her erratic breaths and the crackling of the fire. Then…

“Is your God truly so vengeful?”

Margaret whipped her head towards the Reverend at his gentle query. “I—what?”

He patted the settee next to him. “Look around you, child. Look at this war. Do you truly think you are the only one to sin without remorse? Do you truly believe your soul so tainted as to be marked by God, worthy of His smiting for your sins against Him?”

“Sometimes it feels that way,” Margaret muttered as she sank onto the offered seat, her shoulders caving forward. “How else would you explain…everything?”

The Reverend let out a small sigh. “I wish I could, truly. I wish I had the answers you seek.” He wiped a hand over his face, looking older than Margaret had ever seen him. “Not too long ago, I may have been inclined to agree with you. That we earn our lot in life, through deeds known and unknown, but now… Now nothing is what it was.”

“I—”

“You are seeking to blame the Lord for everything that’s happened as much as you blame yourself, and neither is fair. I don’t believe the Lord sought your family’s deaths as punishment, Margaret. The bible tells us time and again He does not delight in His children’s suffering. And there are far more wicked people in this world than you.”

Margaret felt a slight indignation rise at his words. She was comforted by his doubt in the corruption of her soul, of course, but it sounded to her that he believed there was no true reason to the tragedy that had befallen her. She closed her eyes, her mind reeling.

“I don’t…why—how can you say that? That there is no reason? No…justification? He took my family from me,” she cried, aware of her voice climbing in volume but powerless to stop it. “He _took_ my parents and Austin – forever! He took Caleb and Abraham, He took Anna when I needed her most, He took _Ben_. And it doesn’t matter that they aren’t all dead, He took them from me, He—”

“‘The Lord was not in the wind _,_ ’ Margaret Roe!” Reverend Tallmadge thundered over Margaret’s lament, shocking her into silence as he grabbed her hands, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Though it rent the mountains, ‘the Lord was not in the wind,’” he repeated softly. “Nor the earthquake, nor the fire. The Lord was in—”

“‘—the still, small voice,’” Margaret whispered, heat pricking at her eyes.

“‘The still, small voice,’” the Reverend smiled sadly at her, reaching a hand up to wipe away the first tear sliding down her cheek. “The Lord did not take your family, Margaret. He welcomed them home.” He squeezed her hand he was still holding as she stared at him, unable to respond. “We live in a world of darkness. A world of illness, a world of men who will kill those who disagree with them, and _none_ of it is _your fault_.”

A sob escaped Margaret’s throat as his words pierced her heart. The Reverend opened his arms to her, pulling her close as she fell into him as if she were a girl again, running to her father after skinning her knee. She felt as though he wrenched open the doors to her heart – her _soul_ – and allowed the weight of her guilt to escape like so many birds freed from a lifetime in a cage. And all she could do now was cry, pouring every ounce of her shame into her sobs until it left her at last.

She wasn’t aware how long they sat there, his arms tight around her with her face buried in his shoulder, before he spoke.

“As for your friends, child, much like…much like Ben, they made decisions that hurt you. They chose to leave, but I know they didn’t want to cause you pain. I’ve known all of you your entire lives, I watched you all grow up. They didn’t want to cause you pain,” he brushed a hand over her hair in slow, calming strokes as her sobs subsided. “And Anna did not leave you for long, did she? _That_ is where you should listen for the voice of the Lord. You will always find Him in those you love.”

Allowing herself a moment longer to rest in the safety in the arms of the man who had always been a second father to her, Margaret felt…peace. Eventually she reluctantly pulled back, taking a deep breath of the air that was impossibly lighter around them and reaching for her handkerchief to clean her face.

The Reverend laid a hand on her shoulder. “Our coffee is surely cold by now, why don’t I go make us a fresh pot?”

Margaret nodded, wiping her eyes with a small, self-conscious laugh. “That would be lovely, thank you Reverend.”

She thoroughly scrubbed at her face once he left and stretched her arms, taking her mitts off and laying them on the settee; she was certainly plenty warm by that point. She stood, wandering towards the bookshelves and scanning the titles as she absentmindedly traced the various scars on her forearms from misadventures with boiling pots of laundry.

“See anything you like?” the Reverend asked as he set the refreshed tea tray down, holding out a plate of biscuits to her.

“Much,” she smiled, taking one. “I know I’ve read many of your books, but I believe I spotted a few unfamiliar titles,” she added after swallowing a bite of slightly-stale biscuit.

“Feel free to borrow any you like; I’ve read them all and won’t miss them,” the Reverend offered as he poured fresh cups of coffee, fixing hers exactly as she liked again.

“Thank you, I’ll certainly take you up on that.” Margaret accepted the presented cup gratefully, sitting on the settee and waiting for the Reverend to follow suit. “May I ask, Reverend…do you ever stop missing them?” she asked tentatively. The Reverend had been so kind and understanding with her that night, she hoped he would forgive the quite possibly painful and certainly impertinent question. “That is, do you ever stop missing those who are gone forever?”

The Reverend nodded his head once with a small, resigned sigh, not in affirmation, but acceptance, as if he expected the question. He took a sip of his coffee. “‘I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’”

“I’ve heard you read those words more than once this year,” Margaret murmured.

“I have always found them comforting; I know many feel the same. They reassure us that no one is truly gone, in this world or the next. But no,” he continued quietly, “you never stop missing them. You only learn how to accept their absence and continue to live in such a way that would make them proud.”

Margaret allowed silence to stretch for a moment as she pondered his words, and nearly startled as he spoke again.

“Beyond that, all we must do now is have faith that those who still can be returned to us someday will be,” he said pensively.

Margaret followed his eyes to the mantle. A pang shot through her as she realized he would have no knowledge of Ben’s whereabouts or well-being. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, torn with indecision. _What would Ben want?_ Surely bringing his father peace of mind would be a good thing, but she couldn’t reveal too much. She had only just begun to ford into Ben’s spiderwebbed world of lies and spies and secrets but knew already that their secrets were their security. Their secrets kept them safe. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Reverend Tallmadge to keep any information she told him to himself, far from it, but she realized the less he knew, the safer he’d be as well. She’d just have to walk a thin line. She was getting rather good at that.

“Reverend…” Margaret began, turning briefly to set her teacup on a side table. “I can’t tell you how I know this, and it is incredibly important that you not breathe a word of any of this to anyone – it’s a matter of life and death, truly—”

“What is it, child?” concern was fresh on the Reverend’s face as he cut off her ramblings. “Everything we’ve discussed tonight will remain between us, I promise you.”

“Ben’s alive.”

It wasn’t the first time one of the two had been shocked into silence that night, but – unlike before – the silence was filled with an air not only of astonishment, but of disbelieving, hesitant joy.

“He’s all right, he’s—oh!” Margaret caught the Reverend’s teacup as it began to slip towards the floor, his eyes staring blankly at her. “He’s all right. He’s a Captain now, in the Connecticut second light dragoons.”

The Reverend slowly brought a hand to his face, rubbing his chin absentmindedly as Margaret set his cup aside. She stared at Ben’s portrait with him, allowing him a moment to take in the news.

“He’ll do well in the cavalry,” he said at last through a thick voice.

“Yes,” Margaret smiled, remembering a similar reaction from herself. She glanced over to the Reverend, her heart breaking as she noticed tears shining on his cheeks that he roughly wiped away. She reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, covering her hand with his own. “It’s just that…to have heard nothing for so long…”

“I know.”

“Have you word of Samuel as well?” he asked anxiously.

Margaret shook her head slowly. “No. I’m sorry.” She hoped Caleb would have told her if he had any news. She made a mental note to tell Abe to ask Caleb if he’d heard anything. That is, whenever the smuggler finally decided to show up.

“I never allowed myself to assume the worst, but I—” his brow furrowed, his hand tightening on hers as he cut himself off and turned to her. “You said you can’t tell me how you know, have you _seen_ Benjamin? Does this ‘matter of life and death’ have _anything_ to do with your…your transgressions you mentioned earlier? Tell me the truth now,” he demanded.

Margaret suddenly felt quite small. Despite having been more honest and forthright with him that night than she had with anyone in months, perhaps even longer, his barrage of questions made her feel as if she should immediately declare everything she still hid from him. She was reminded of more than one incident of her youth in which she – or others – had confessed to a prank or other incident when met with the Reverend’s stern, unwavering gaze.

“I have not seen nor spoken with him, I only heard what I know through another. It is…somewhat to do with what I spoke of earlier…and somewhat not,” she answered honestly, thinking of her smuggling.

“Are you speaking true? Do not try to lie to me for his sake.” The Reverend leveled his infamous stare at her. “I am all too aware that boy can be far too single-minded for his own good, if he has put you in harm’s way in any—”

“I swear to you, what I say is true. And I truly _cannot_ say more, I wish I could,” Margaret cut him off. “But I thank you for your concern all the same,” she smiled.

“My concern seems to matter little to any of you. I fret over the things you children do and you go and continue to do them anyways,” the Reverend grumbled as he turned back to the hearth. “And I can’t even stop you because you aren’t truly children anymore.” He sighed. “When did that happen, Margaret?” his voice took on a distant tone as he stared at the fire. Margaret could only imagine what he saw within. “When did you stop being children?”

“June, 1775. At least for me, that is,” she laughed despondently. “Anna, two years before that. As for the boys…well I suppose that remains to be seen.”

It took a moment before Margaret’s jest broke through the Reverend’s haze of memory, but she joined him as he finally began to chuckle.

The atmosphere lighthearted once more, the Reverend turned to her again as a small smile broke across his face. “Benjamin is alive.”

“He is. He’s alive, he’s safe.”

_For now._

* * *

_The Delaware River Shore, New Jersey_

Ben was dying. Of that, he was absolutely certain.

There was no way of telling how long his body had drifted between blistering heat that set his skin aflame and biting cold that seeped into his bones; he only knew it had been far, far too long. Every so often Caleb hazily appeared before him, almost as if Ben was seeing him through a wavy pane of glass or thick fog. He would tell him endless stories, hold his head to force water or some kind of broth down his throat, or adjust his blankets, talking to him all the while. Always talking, as if he expected Ben to answer.

As if he wasn’t talking to a dead man.

Days must have passed since whatever incident that led to this fog of illness occurred. Try as he might, Ben couldn’t recall exactly what had happened, nor the events of the time since, but he remembered cold. They were…traveling somewhere? Were they going home? He tried to shake his leaden head into focus as his thoughts dissipated with the onset of another bout of fierce shivers assaulting his body, traveling from his ribs down his spine to his limbs and back again.

Ben felt a brief annoyance pierce through him; it seemed incredibly unjust that he’d survived deadly situations and impossible odds more than once only to be taken by illness far from anywhere and anyone he knew, save Caleb.

_God, Caleb._

Caleb would never forgive him if he were to die. Caleb would never forgive _himself_ if he were to die.

Caleb wouldn’t be the only one cursing Ben’s name, either. There were far too many mistakes he had yet to atone for, he couldn’t die yet. A harsh cough racked his chest, stealing his breath as a reminder that he only had so much choice in the matter. He could fight it til his last breath – which seemed to be growing thinner every minute – but if it was his time…

_I’m sorry._

He’d have said it aloud, had there been anyone to apologize to. Anyone who deserved an apology before his eyes opened no more. But there was no one. Ben was alone.

He briefly tried to open his eyes, but the task proved far too momentous to accomplish. If he strained his other weakened senses, though, he could take in the smell of nearby smoke, a fire crackling close enough he could feel the heat on his face. Waves somewhere behind him, under him a bed of fallen leaves atop frozen earth. Without the help of his eyes, Caleb was nowhere to be found.

There was no one.

And Ben was alone.

Crunching leaves heralded someone’s approach; it sounded as though they stopped by the fire and stirred it.

 _I’m sorry_ , Ben tried again, his frustration growing as naught but a scratchy wheeze escaped his throat. If he could not make amends with all before his death, he could at least speak to Caleb one last time. _I’m sorry I dragged you into my impossible intelligence plan. I’m sorry the plan failed. I’m sorry I failed you. I’m sorry I failed everyone. I’m sorry I’m dying. I’m—_

“I’m sorry.” Triumph spread through Ben’s chest at the small victory of a single murmur, his shoulders slumping into the ground as the tension holding them was released.

“Hm. I see it only took near death for me to receive an apology. Honestly, Benjamin, I expected better.”

A dry feminine voice that was decidedly _not_ Caleb’s answered his feeble admission. A voice light with teasing, but with an undertone of gravity. A voice as soothing to his ears as it was disconcerting. Feeling as though he were prying a millstone from the ground, Ben forced his eyes open, squinting desperately through the darkness at the blurry form in front of him solidifying into a figure he knew well.

Margaret stood before him, crouched next to the fire with a familiar wry grin lighting her face.

She appeared just as she had the last time he saw her, wearing her flowered jacket and blue petticoat, his cross hanging proudly from her neck for all to see. Her dark hair glowing red in the firelight was arranged in her usual updo, rebellious curls escaping as they often did to rest on the back of her neck and frame her face, whether she wished them to or not.

If he had any breath left in his body it surely would have fled.

“What’s that look for?” she asked blithely, raising an eyebrow at what he could only imagine was an utterly astounded expression as she rose and walked towards him. “Are you surprised to see me?” she knelt next to him, her face coming fully into focus.

“Margaret…” Ben whispered, blinking back sudden tears. He couldn’t manage to think of anything else to say.

“Ben…” Margaret responded with equal tenderness, laying a hand on his cheek, her fingers icy as the water he had fallen into.

_The water…_

“I fell into the river,” Ben remembered.

“That you did,” Margaret laughed. “Don’t think Caleb will ever allow you to forget that.”

It occurred to him suddenly that Margaret could not possibly be truly with him, no matter how he wished it. Perhaps she was a vision of a failing mind. And yet…in some way she _was_ here, even if it was only in his imagination. He thought for now, in his last moments, that could be enough.

Ben weakly raised his hand to cover hers, chafing slightly to try and bring her warmth. “You’re freezing.”

“Perhaps you’re just extraordinarily warm.”

“Well, I am dying.”

NotMargaret rolled her eyes as she pulled away, Ben’s hand trailing after hers in the air. “Spare me the dramatics, Benjamin,” she said as she moved around him to sit next to his head under the small lean-to Caleb had constructed. “Caleb has been doing his best to keep your sorry arse alive, and…well, he hasn’t managed to kill you yet.”

“I’m not dying?” Ben frowned up at her as she placed a hand under his head to support it, moving his makeshift pillow and sliding her legs in its place.

“No.”

“Then I must be dreaming,” he concluded, nestling his head more comfortably into NotMargaret’s lap.

“I always knew you were a bright one,” she grinned cheekily down at him.

“Must you always tease me?” he sighed, putting on an air of resigned tolerance even as the familiarity of their banter warmed his heart.

“If I didn’t, you’d think something was wrong.” She smoothed hair off his forehead, her smile belying the tightness underneath.

He caught her hand again, resting them both on his chest as he stared into her bright eyes, shame engulfing him at the pain he found there. The betrayal. Was it imagined? Did he merely assume this was how she would look at him, were they reunited? Or had a shadow of it been there before, and he had never truly recognized it; too consumed by his attempts at acceptance of her heartbreaking decisions.

“But it is, isn’t it?” He gripped her hand. “Everything is wrong.”

“I suppose so.”

He huffed out a breath, staring up at the countless entwined branches above them. “I can’t even apologize to you. Not really.”

“Of course you can.”

“What difference would it make?” he scoffed.

“It may bring you peace,” NotMargaret murmured. Her voice was soft, entreating.

Ben shook his head. “It won’t. Not until I can say it to _you_.”

“I’m here.”

“No,” he murmured sadly, taking her hand that had grown no warmer and pressing her fingers once to his lips. “I cannot rest until I do something right.”

“You have—”

“I haven’t,” he cut her off, his eyes snapping back to hers. “Not yet, not truly. I don’t yet know if everything I have done, everything I have sacrificed, have risked, if any of it has accomplished anything at all, or if it all has been in vain.” His breaths deepened as his grip on her hand tightened again. “I have to know. I cannot rest until I know.”

NotMargaret gave him a small smile, clutching his hand as tightly as he was hers. “Then you’re ready.”

He furrowed his brow. “Ready? What on earth for?”

“Daybreak, you silly man.”

A brilliant light burst from behind her, illuminating the side of her face. She looked towards it, seemingly unbothered by the radiance blinding him as it gleamed over her shoulder. She turned back to Ben, bending over him to place her face close to his, stray curls brushing his cheeks as her cross came to rest against his chest.

“It’s time to wake up, Ben,” NotMargaret whispered. “It’s sunrise.”

The light grew brighter around her, making it nearly impossible to keep his eyes locked on her, no matter how he wished to. His heart accelerated; he knew if he closed his eyes now, she’d be gone when he opened them again, he _knew_ it. He squinted up at her, unable to bring himself to banish her from his sight even as she gave him a reassuring nod. It was too soon, she had only just arrived, he couldn’t send her away. Not again.

“It’s all right, Ben. You’ll be all right. I’ll still be here with you,” she breathed, briefly pressing her forehead to his before pulling back. “Let me go now.”

With that, he finally screwed his eyes shut as the light became too much to bear; blindly searching for the frigid hand he knew had just been in his grasp, he found it gone. He tried to open his eyes to see if she had indeed vanished but found them as uncooperative as when she had first appeared. Gasping in a ragged breath that turned into a vicious cough, he managed to slowly pry his eyes open as a shout that was unmistakably Caleb’s rang out behind him.

“Hey! Happy New Year, Tallboy!”

Ben came to slowly, blinking disorientedly around the makeshift camp that appeared the same as it had in whatever strange dream he just woken from. She had been right after all. For however many days it lasted, Caleb had kept him alive through the night.

_She’s always right._

(He could _never_ tell her he just thought that.)

But the night was over, he realized; his breath clouded before him in the dim light reflecting off the water. She was right.

It was sunrise.

* * *

Margaret woke slowly, blinking disorientedly in the hazy morning sun filtering through the window of the unfamiliar room. She could instantly tell by the intensity of the light that it was far later than she usually awoke. She stretched her limbs, sifting information through her mind as she tried to piece together how she might have managed to fall asleep in this room with no memory of arriving there; it was during this deciphering that she realized she ought to have been far more unsettled by it all than she was. However, there was some strange measure of comfort in the room that she simply couldn’t shake. Swinging her legs to the floor, she noticed her shoes were still on the bed, as if she had kicked them off in her sleep, and she had slept on a fully made bed with two blankets laid over top of her.

As she poured water from the thankfully full pitcher into the basin on the modest washstand, it was the wooden cross hanging on the wall that finally did it. She closed her eyes.

_Of course. Idiot._

She must’ve dozed off while talking to the Reverend, who then put her in the spare room for the remainder of the night. Vague memories drifted through her mind of drowsily stumbling her way up the stairs and into the room, leaning heavily on the kind man who then directed her to the bed and tucked extra quilts around her.

She quickly scrubbed her face and neck, shoving her uncooperative curls back into her cap best she could before tugging her shoes back on and throwing open the door, fully intending to dash down the stairs until something tugged at her mind, stopping her feet. An open door to her right called to her. Despite spending much time in the house over her lifetime, Margaret had never before been to the second floor, so though she had no way of knowing, she felt certain the doorway led to Samuel and Ben’s room.

She took two steps towards the room before halting again, pursing her lips. She couldn’t go in. She didn’t know whether it was her fear of the onslaught of memories that would surely stem from whatever Ben had left there, or the knowledge that Reverend Tallmadge had undoubtedly heard her footsteps and knew she was awake, or the troubling feeling that it would somehow be a horrid invasion of Ben’s privacy, but her feet were stayed. She couldn’t go in.

Instead, she turned and rushed down the stairs, her momentum from the steep steps carrying her forward much faster than she planned, nearly causing her to crash into the Reverend as he stepped out of the drawing room. Were she not overcome by mortification at their narrowly avoided collision, she would have laughed aloud at him quickly shifting his teacup to the side so she wouldn’t knock it out of his hands without spilling a drop; it was a reflexive move so practiced it lead her to believe the poor man had lived through many similar incidents.

“Reverend Tallmadge! I—I’m so sorry, I—”

“Think nothing of it. It’s been so long since someone came barreling down those stairs and nearly ran me down, I’d almost begun to miss it,” he chuckled.

“I do apologize, Reverend,” Margaret laughed as well even as she felt her cheeks flush brilliantly. “Might I ask the time? I’m sure I’ve awoken far later than I have in…well, I suppose I don’t even know how long.”

He glanced over his shoulder to the clock in the drawing room. “It’s just about half-past nine.”

“Half-past _nine_?” Margaret gasped. She certainly did have quite the lie-in, Anna had to have been awake for hours.

“Do forgive me for not waking you,” the Reverend said calmingly in the wake of her surprise. “But as you didn’t awaken on your own, I figured you needed the rest.”

“I—truthfully, I did, I’m sure, especially after the spectacle I made of myself last night,” Margaret grimaced, avoiding his eyes.

“You did no such thing. I suspect a conversation such as that was long overdue, hm?” the Reverend peered over the rims of his reading spectacles at her, taking a sip of coffee.

“Probably,” she admitted as she crossed her arms over her stomach, shifting uncomfortably on her feet.

“Well, would you care to break your fast? Or a cup of coffee perhaps?” he gestured towards the kitchen.

“I would love to say yes, Reverend,” she began, backing slightly towards the front door, “and I hope you don’t think me rude, but I can only imagine how worried Anna must be – she didn’t even know I was going out last night. I need to return the manor before she sends out a search party.”

“Of course,” he nodded, walking her to the entryway. “Here,” he said quietly, setting his teacup down on the small table near the door, taking her cape from the hook, and placing it around her shoulders.

Margaret murmured her thanks as she tied it around her throat.

“And here,” he continued, picking up her mitts from the same table and holding them out to her. She realized he must have moved them there after she left them sitting on the settee.

She pulled them on as her brow creased. “Reverend Tallmadge, I—I must…” she sighed. “I don’t have the words to thank you enough for your kindness – for everything you have done. You have given me peace in a way I haven’t known for months. I realized some time ago I should have come to you sooner. This summer I mean,” she continued as he began to wave away her attempted apology. “I was just afraid of…you see, I didn’t want to be…a painful reminder, I suppose, of…of Ben’s absence.”

“Well. Aren’t we a pair?” the Reverend let out a small laugh.

Margaret looked at him questioningly.

“I did not come to you this summer for the same reason.”

Margaret huffed out an almost incredulous laugh at their attempted kindness to each other that was nothing but hurtful for both. “Might I come visit you now, though?” she smiled.

“Nothing would please me more,” he returned her grin.

“I…I ask if I might come here,” Margaret began hesitantly as her smile dimmed, “because I — I know this must sound horrid, and I truly mean no disrespect, but all the same – I…er, I cannot be seen with you around town.”

The Reverend’s face grew solemn as he stared at her for a moment before reaching out and taking her hands in his. “Whatever it is you’re doing, on your own or somehow in relation to Benjamin, you need not give me explanations. All I ask is that you are careful.”

Margaret’s throat tightened a bit as she gazed back at the concerned man. “I try to be,” she forced a small smile that faded as he remained grave. “I’ll try harder.”

“Good,” he squeezed her hands. “In a kinder world, you would have long since been my daughter, Margaret. You may not be in the eyes of the law, but in my eyes…well, in my eyes you already are.”

A happy tear slipped down her cheek as she noticed the Reverend struggling to maintain composure himself.

“You have thanked me for my kindness, but I have not thanked you for yours,” he murmured. “After so many months, I know my Benjamin is alive. You have given me hope, child. That is a gift I can never repay. I will pray every morning and every night for news of Samuel, and for both of their safe returns, but until then, you must _swear_ to me that _you_ will take every precaution you can.”

Margaret nodded quickly, tears coming fast by then.

The Reverend gave her an affectionate look, opening his arms to her, which she fell into gratefully, not altogether unlike the night before. “I will not try to dissuade you from anything, for I know I never would,” he scoffed fondly into her hair, “but I could not bear it if something happened to you, child. I could not bear it.”

“I will be careful, I promise you,” Margaret sniffled into his shoulder. “I – thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for everything… _father_.”

The name came easily, naturally. It almost surprised her. As soon as it left her mouth she froze, terrified by the prospect of the guilt she thought would come, but as she stood there…nothing. William Roe and Nathaniel Tallmadge had been good friends for most of their lives and were delighted by the prospect of joining their families; perhaps calling the Reverend such was not a betrayal of her own father as she’d feared. Perhaps it was merely acceptance. A step forward.

The Reverend’s arms tightened around her. “You’re welcome, Margaret.” He pulled back. “You’d best run along to Anna now, but know you’re welcome here any time you wish…day _or_ night,” he added with a grin.

Margaret gave him a watery smile as she thanked him and bid him good day before turning and rushing out of the house before she could lose her composure yet again.

* * *

_January 4th, 1777_

Margaret thought it would have hurt more to move back into her old house. Dumping out her third bucket of melted snow she was using to scrub the dusty floors, she realized she didn’t miss the pain the way she thought she would. Every so often, there would be an ache pulling at her heart as she unearthed memories during her moving and cleaning, but it was warmer than she expected. Bittersweet.

Having lost her job at the tavern thanks to Dejong’s tight clutch on his purse strings, it was up to Margaret to restore her house to its former glory…or at least its former livability. It had grown rather shabby in the months Margaret had been gone and was in desperate need of some repairs in addition to a thorough cleaning. Though she learned long before then how to perform minor maintenance, it was the weak spot in the roof that was the most concerning with the full weight of winter upon them. She had spoken with Walter Havens earlier that very day, however, and he had graciously agreed to come by to help fix it.

She dragged her bucket through the snow before setting it on the stoop to be taken back to the kitchen and sit by the fire for a few minutes to melt. She paused before heading inside, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead as her damp skin grew chilled in the wintry air. She was watching the sun slowly descend over the glittering fields of snow when she heard her name shouted from somewhere behind her.

“Margaret! _MARGARET!_ ”

She whipped around to see Anna tearing through the snow towards her, wildly waving what looked like a newspaper in her hand.

“Anna? What on _earth_ —” Margaret tried to shout back as she started forward, meeting Anna halfway.

“Trenton!” Anna yelled, lowering her voice as they approached each other, her chest heaving. “Trenton.”

“ _What?_ ” Margaret stared at her with wild eyes, the memory of a dark haybarn slamming into her.

“It’s Washington. Washington defeated a British force at Trenton. Margaret,” Anna gasped, holding the paper forward, “they were _Hessians_.”

Margaret snatched the paper from her hands, extraordinarily thankful that her home was on the outskirts of town and therefore a decent distance from other’s houses. Her eyes scoured the paper, devouring the angry, bitter words telling of Washington’s triumph in New Jersey. “My God.” She looked up at Anna, her smile growing. “My _God_ , Anna.”

“I know.”

“Anna—”

“I know!”

A laugh burst from Margaret’s throat, tears clouding her eyes as she crushed Anna in a hug. Their laughter turned into shrieks of elation as they clutched at one another and bounced on their feet, their joy unable to be contained.

“We did it, Meg.”

They pulled back, leaving their arms wrapped around each other’s waists.

“We did it,” Anna repeated.

“Do you know what this means, Anna?”

“What?”

“We did the impossible,” Margaret whispered, taking a deep, bracing breath as an unforgiving wind whistled in from the shore, wrapping their skirts around their legs. Even then, as her shoulders began to tremble from the bitter gust of swirling snow, Margaret was unfazed.

_The Lord was not in the wind._

“We did the impossible, Anna. And we shall do it again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The alternate title to this chapter is "Margaret Goes to Therapy." 
> 
> But anyways, I've finally posted the mega chapter! Longest to date, and my absolute favorite so far. Some of the scenes here are my favorite in this entire first book. I hope it was worth the wait, I really ended up packing *a lot* in here lol, I kept surprising myself with how much happened in this chapter when I went back for my first editing run. A LOT of character development, a lot of plot set up...I just really enjoyed writing this chapter.
> 
> We have our...second(? I think?) *major* plot change from show canon with both Abigail and Cicero leaving for NYC -- this is definitely going to have long long reaching effects on the story. 
> 
> I wanted to give a quick note on Reverend Tallmadge -- I did my best with his characterization as we barely see him in the show, but he came across to me as someone who could be very stern and tough when needed, but underneath was a huge softie who really cared about people. His theology very likely does not match up great with what would have been true to Presbyterian ministers of the time, but it is fiction and I needed it to work with the story context and characters, I hope you all enjoyed his scenes (he'll be back for sure!!).
> 
> Next chapter will be on the shorter side (and so will probably come out faster than this did), and we'll be seeing the return of what was clearly a favorite dynamic from a few chapters back (I got a lot of comments on it lol it was great!), and spend some time with a character that's about to become a lot more important. 
> 
> Until then, thank you all so much for reading and enjoying my story, I really can't believe as of writing this we're almost to 600 hits, it just blows my mind. I love you all.  
> Enjoy! -Gin


	9. Chapter Eight: My Aim is True

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprise visitor to the Roe house brings news both exciting and terrifying; Walter Havens makes an offer. As Margaret learns to fight in a new way, she finds herself once again caught between revealing difficult truths and entrenching herself deeper in lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free; and laughing at injuries, not maddening under them! Why am I so changed?” Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
> 
> “Courage is resistance to fear. Mastery of fear. Not absence of fear.” Mark Twain
> 
> “Now it is September and the web is woven. The web is woven and you have to wear it.” Wallace Stevens, The Dwarf

_Chapter Eight_

My Aim is True

_January 22nd, 1777_

_The Roe Home, Setauket_

Anna had been gone for little more than an hour when Margaret heard the back door to the house creak open and softly shut.

Heavy footsteps quietly thumped through the kitchen, towards the drawing room. Towards her.

She froze, a half-folded shirt in hand as her heart leapt to her throat. _That isn’t Anna._ She almost called out to ask who was there before she caught herself.

_The one advantage you have against this intruder is that he is unaware of your presence._

Margaret cursed her stupidity in leaving her pistol upstairs; though she doubted she’d have been brave enough to fire it, it may have been enough to scare off the trespasser. What on earth anyone could want from the little house at the edge of town desperately enough to break in she didn’t know, but she was determined they wouldn’t be taking it. Her eyes darted around the room for a weapon of any sort _…there!_ Tucked in the dwindling pile of items nicked from Strong Manor: a decent-sized vase of no great monetary or sentimental value. _It’ll have to do._

She dropped the shirt back into the basket of laundry she’d been tending to and scurried to her makeshift armament, utilizing her intimate knowledge of her childhood home to sidestep the creaky floorboards she knew would betray her presence. She snatched up the vase with shaky hands and pressed herself against the wall next to the doorway as the leisurely footsteps reached the drawing room, scarcely heard over the pounding of her heart in her ears.

Margaret clutched the vase to her body and briefly squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stifle her ragged breaths as the intruder stepped into the room. She raised the vase the moment he passed her hiding place and brought it down with all her might on the back of his head, wincing as shards of porcelain flew through the air and the man stumbled to the ground with a shout.

If not for the wall directly behind her, Margaret might have fallen over as a familiar lilt echoed through the room with a thunderous, _“JesusMaryand **Joseph** , woman!”_

Her hand flew to her heaving chest, eyes finally registering the unmistakable hat and coat in front of her. _“Caleb?!”_

* * *

Caleb winced as Margaret gently placed a cloth filled with snow on the back of his head.

“I truly am sorry, Caleb,” Margaret grimaced as he took the cloth from her, holding it in place.

“I told you not to worry about it, Maggie-lass. I’ve got a hard head.”

“Oh, you needn’t tell _me_ that,” she scoffed, sitting next to him at the kitchen table.

“Ha,” he deadpanned. “You know, honestly I’m more disappointed that the best you could do was bash me over the head with a piece of porcelain. If I _had_ been a blackguard, you’d have been in a spot of trouble.”

“Yes, well, I had to improvise.” She brushed her curls out of her face; in all the excitement of rushing around trying to tend to Caleb and prepare some food for the tired man, it seemed half her unruly hair had slipped from its updo. “And besides, pray tell why you didn’t just knock? Or announce yourself when you entered?”

“It’s bad enough to be sneaking around anywhere here during daylight, and I’ve already had to slip past the whole bloody town to get here, I needed to get inside fast. And I didn’t know if you were home.”

“…and?”

“And…” Caleb shifted in his chair. “And I may have had a mind to…er…“surprise” you if you were indeed home.”

Margaret smirked, expecting nothing less. “So why _are_ you here, I thought you were only supposed to come when Anna signaled? Not that I’m unhappy, of course – we’ve lost our way to signal and have been trying to figure how to get word to you.”

“Yeah,” Caleb nodded as he tore into the plate she set in front of him, “I’ve already seen Woody, he told me about all that. As to why I’m here, the signal was going to need to change a bit anyways – Sackett’s got all kinds of ideas for improving how we’ve been going about things,” he told her through a mouthful of food. “Woody and I won’t be meeting in face to face anymore. Instead, Anna’ll be putting a lantern in the attic window in the tavern so I know there’s a message waiting for me – I’ll row across and pick it up from where Abe’s hid it in a tree in the westernmost cove.”

“And if you have a message for us, you’ll leave it in the tree as well, for Abe to pick up?”

“Exactly.”

“I can see the sense in that, keeping each step separated surely must be safer. Who is this Sackett you mentioned?” Margaret asked as she snagged a piece of dried apple from Caleb’s plate and popped it in her mouth.

“Oh, Mr. Sackett is working with Bennyboy on intelligence; after Washington reassigned Scott, he assigned Sackett to Ben,” Caleb told her lightly with a gleam in his eye. “That was after good ol’ Tallboy met with the head man himself and convinced him of our way for intelligence.”

 _“Washington?”_ Margaret choked, nearly tipping out of her chair. “Ben ha—Ben met with _Washington?”_

“Our boy’s moving up in the world,” Caleb gave her an unmistakably proud smile. “Washington’s also promoted him. We have the honor of knowing _Major_ Benjamin Tallmadge of the Second Continental Light Dragoons, Head of Intelligence for the Continental Army.”

Margaret merely stared at him for a moment. A breathless laugh escaped her as her mind ceased its scrambling and grasped his words. “Are you speaking true? You’re not…I—truly?” she pressed a hand to her mouth as a disbelieving grin split across her face. _Major Tallmadge, Head of Intelligence._

He chuckled. “On my honor, lass.”

“When you get back to camp, you tell him…tell him…” Margaret furrowed her brow at the realization that neither she nor Ben had used Caleb as a messenger before. She wasn’t sure which notion was more distressing: that neither had thought of it, or that Ben had thought of it and chose not to. Well. She wouldn’t do the same. It wouldn’t be much, but...perhaps it was a start. “You tell him,” she swallowed the hitch in her breath, “that I am so very proud of him. Do that for me, will you?”

Caleb sobered, giving her a solemn nod. “On my honor, lass.”

“Now,” Margaret cleared her throat, “about Washington. Did you meet him as well? What was he like? Is he—"

“I’m only a lieutenant and humble smuggler, lass,” Caleb held up a hand. “I haven’t met the old fox myself.” He must’ve have noticed the slightly disappointed expression she quickly tried to conceal, for he leaned forward with a twinkle in his eye. “I did _see_ him, though. But a few feet in front of me.”

Margaret found herself drawn in by her excitement and leaned forward as well. “What was it like? What was _he_ like?”

Caleb paused for only a moment, a strange look on his face; ‘awestruck’ would have come to Margaret’s mind had it been anyone but Caleb, but it seemed far too strong a sentiment for the incurably irreverent man.

“He’s…everything you think he would be. He’s so tall he’s got a few inches even on Bennyboy, and there’s this air about him…” Caleb ran a hand over his beard as he removed the now-dripping cloth from his head and set it on the table. “You know, you hear these stories, right? That there’s this man who somehow became the only one holding our whole bloody side of the war together. That he’s a keen mind and brilliant leader, but he’s lost more battles and troops than you’d think possible for a man staying in the fight. That even now he’s the only one on this continent who can unite us against the British. And you think it can’t all be true. He can’t possibly be what people say he is. But I swear to you, Meg, all I had to do was look at the man to know.”

Margaret smiled at him, oddly overcome by sudden emotion. She knew such an endorsement coming from Caleb meant something – he certainly wasn’t one to be overly deferential or commending unless he felt it was deserved. His words only fed the bud of hope that had begun to blossom in her chest. They _…hope._ She blinked. “Oh!” She reached out and gripped his hand. “Trenton! Caleb, we heard about Trenton! Is it possible…I mean to say, could _we_ have truly—”

“Er…yes and no, I suppose.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, Tallboy said that because it was unsigned and unverified, they all but disregarded the report when they got it at headquarters back in November. _But,_ ” he stressed as Margaret frowned, “it was that same report, verified to be true by the events in Jersey, that convinced Washington to take a closer look at Ben and his way for intelligence.”

Margaret leaned back in her seat. “There’s no turning back now.”

“Don’t I know it. Not that I’d take it if there were such an opportunity, ‘course, but still…Ben’s counting on us. On _me._ Can’t disappoint him, now can I?” Caleb said softly, looking intently at the table.

“He adores you, Caleb. You’re his best friend, his brother. You couldn’t disappoint him if you tried.”

“Well, I doubt that’s true. But…thank you all the same. Anyways,” he sat up straighter, “can’t disappoint Washington either, now, so it was a bit of luck Abe had intelligence ready for me.”

“We had intelligence ready for you nearly a month ago,” Margaret scoffed. “Anna and I had to take the signal down when we moved and until now didn’t know what we were going to do. Why didn’t you come for it?”

“Well…” Caleb squinted. “I was with the army in Pennsylvania before we moved on Jersey, and then was…detained for a few days while they went on ahead.”

“‘Detained?’” Margaret frowned at him.

“I…” he scrubbed his hands over his face with a sigh. “Look, lass, Ben wouldn’t want me to be telling you this, but during the crossing to Jersey, there…well, there was an accident.”

Margaret’s heart stopped.

“Hey, hey, he’s all right!” Caleb exclaimed softly, finally meeting her eyes. Her face must have betrayed her as he caught her hands and gently chafed his thumbs across them. “Breathe. He’s fine now, remember? Like I said, he’s at camp.”

Margaret nodded, taking a steadying breath. “Go on. What happened during the crossing?”

“When we were shoring up, the men in our boat weren’t paying attention and tipped her. The boat stayed upright, but most our armaments would’ve gone in the water if Ben hadn’t reached over and grabbed them. In doing so, though, he ended up taking a plunge himself.”

Margaret choked down the gasp that attempted to escape, reminding herself again that he was whole and hale and with Washington. “Did he take ill?”

“Aye,” Caleb murmured in response, still rubbing soothing circles into her hands. “The rest continued on to Trenton while we stayed at the shore and I cared for him best I could ‘til he was strong enough to travel. I don’t think you’ll be surprised to know I’m no nursemaid,” he gave her a tight grin she was scarcely able to reciprocate, “and there were times I was afraid I’d lose him. But it turned out all right, eh?”

“Christ.” Margaret had stared blankly at the smuggler, nearly unable to comprehend the events that transpired over Christmas.

“He’s a soldier, Maggie,” Caleb gave her a strange, sad sort of look. “Things like this are bound to happen, just as before.”

“Just as...something such as this has happened before?” Margaret returned his frown.

Caleb’s hands stilled over hers. He looked away.

“Look at me,” Margaret hissed, turning her hands over to clutch at his. An uncomfortable gnawing grew deep in the pit of her stomach. _“Has it happened before?”_

“He and his dragoons were ambushed back in autumn, he barely made it out alive,” Caleb muttered reluctantly, his dark eyes boring into her light ones. “And…he was the only survivor.”

“My God.” Her stomach churned. “My God, Caleb, he nearly _died,”_ she whispered. It wasn’t possible. It shouldn’t have been possible. It wasn’t fair. “Ben nearly died – _twice_ – and I wouldn’t have even known.”

“Maggie—”

_I wouldn’t have even known._

“Samuel.”

“What?”

“Sorry,” Margaret shook her head. “I—do you know anything of Samuel? Reverend Tallmadge asked…never mind, have you heard anything?”

Caleb’s frown turned suspicious. “What about the Reverend?”

“Nothing, it’s not important,” Margaret’s cheeks flushed at her slip. “Have you—”

 _“What_ did he ask?”

“He…” she bit her lip. “He asked if I’d heard anything of Sam, he’s worried half to death.”

“And _why_ did he think you’d know anything about that?” Caleb’s thunderous expression was uncharacteristic enough to set her truly on edge.

“Because I told him I knew Ben was alive, all right?” Margaret burst out. “Because he’s had no word and he’s terrified something might have happened, so I told him his son is alive and safe!”

“DAMMIT, Margaret!”

Margaret nearly jumped out of her skin as Caleb smacked his hand on the table and leapt from his chair.

“How could you do that?! This is _secret_ intelligence work, what about that do you people not understand?” He paced across the small kitchen, gesturing frantically at her. “The more who know, the more danger we’re all in. How could _you,_ of all people, be _stupid_ enough to—”

“Don’t you _dare!”_ Margaret fumed, shooting up from her chair as well. “I didn’t tell him _anything_ of intelligence, in fact I told him he could not ask me how I knew! I know _exactly_ what stakes we’re facing, but he has a right to know about the fate of his children! So don’t you _scold_ me, Caleb Brewster, don’t you _dare!”_

Tense silence filled the room as they glared at each other.

Caleb’s shoulders sagged as he forced out a harsh breath. “Sam was captured a number of months back.”

Margaret’s hand flew over her mouth.

“He’s been a prisoner of the British since then,” he murmured. “I should’ve told you, I’m sorry. I’m ashamed to say it didn’t occur to me that you wouldn’t have known.”

“I…I’m going to tell the Reverend, Caleb. You can’t stop me. He has a right…” she sucked in a ragged breath. “He has—” Margaret froze.

_He has a right to know._

She whipped around, knocking her chair to the ground as she lurched towards the corner of the room.

_Ambushed._

She was going to be sick.

_There was an accident._

She placed a shaky hand on the wall.

_Only survivor._

She wrapped an arm around her middle, trying to force what little food she had in her stomach to remain there.

_I never would’ve known. Had Caleb not told me, I never would’ve known._

“Meg…Look, I know this all…”

Caleb’s voice faded as the room began to spin around her.

 _What if Ben had died?_ her mind hissed. _What if Caleb hadn’t told you? What if he had known, but **lied** to you? What if his own agenda was more important to him than the truth?_

_What if he were **you**?_

Margaret’s legs gave out. She crumpled to her knees as her stomach lurched, a sob ripping itself from her throat.

“Margaret!”

His footsteps thundering across the floor as he raced to her side, Margaret idly thought how odd it was to hear her full name spoken in Caleb’s voice twice in one day. His familiar arm wrapped around her shoulders and turned her so her back rested against the wall. A callused hand cupped her jaw as Caleb’s worried face swam before her eyes, his voice breaking through her clouded mind.

“—sorry, Peggy. _Maggie._ Christ alive, I’m sorry. I should have…I never should have just come out and…I’m sorry,” he finished with a sigh, dropping his chin to his chest.

Margaret covered his hand with hers, closing her eyes and tipping her head back against the wall as she attempted to swallow the lump in her throat. “Caleb…” she whispered, opening her burning eyes. “Caleb, I need to tell you something.”

He frowned at her tone, the tension palpable in the air as his concern visibly grew.

“I should have told you before, I—"

A sharp knock on the front door interrupted her as they both snapped their heads towards the doorway to the drawing room. They turned back to each other with similarly bemused expressions until an echo of Anna’s words from that morning left Margaret thunderstruck, her mouth dropping open and eyes widening of their own accord.

“Shite!” she gasped. “I _…Christ—_ dammit,” she scrambled to her feet, tripping over her petticoats as Caleb grabbed her elbows to keep her from toppling over. “Mr. Havens! Anna told me he was due to stop by, I completely forgot!”

“Ol’ Walt Havens?” Caleb grinned as Margaret stumbled across the kitchen. “I haven’t seen him in years!”

She paused in the doorway, turning back to him in time to see his delighted expression melt away, his smile dimming to something smaller, weaker. Something much, much sadder.

She leaned against the doorframe, watching him as her heart ached for the poor man. She no longer held any shadow of love in her heart for Setauket, but it was different for Caleb. It seemed to her as though he still saw the Setauket of their youth, despite the twisted façade of British loyalty the troops forced upon them. Perhaps he had been away for long enough that he couldn’t see the festering illness under the surface, the corruption. He only saw home.

Margaret envied him.

Even so, she finally realized what misery it must be for a man such as Caleb to be home…but not truly. Unable to see anyone from his life but the three people he was permitted to talk to, unable to visit his house or even hug his family and tell them he was all right. _He has a right to know._ Each journey to Setauket must be their own kind of torture.

“I’ll keep him in the front room,” she told him quietly.

He gave her a sharp nod and silently leant against the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor, out of sight.

Margaret sighed and strode into the drawing room, cursing softly as she narrowly avoided stepping on the shattered pieces of porcelain she’d neglected to sweep up off the floor. She picked her way around them as another knock rang from the door.

“Coming!” she called in a rough voice, haphazardly attempting to tuck stray curls back into her cap with the knowledge she must look an absolute fright with her hair falling out and a shadow of high emotions undoubtedly still on her face. Reaching the small entryway, Margaret pulled the door open and gave a genuine smile to the kind face of Walter Havens staring back at her, his eyebrows raising almost imperceptibly as he took in her appearance.

“Miss Roe,” he nodded to her.

“Mr. Havens, it’s good to see you! Please come in,” she ushered him into the drawing room. “Please forgive the mess,” she blushed, taking in the disaster of a room with fresh eyes: half folded laundry spread across the settee, a bizarre assortment of items piled in the corner, and shards of porcelain scattered across the floor in front of the kitchen doorway. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a somewhat embarrassing time.” She grabbed a spare basket and rushed to the shattered vase, gingerly picking up the large pieces and placing them in the basket. “You see, I was…er…I suppose I was just a bit clumsy,” she tried to laugh convincingly, “and with all the muddle in here I knocked over a vase just before you arrived.” She set the basket aside, noting she’d need to remember to sweep up the smaller pieces later. “Anyways, I—” she froze, still crouched on the floor, as she looked up and saw that Mr. Havens’ attention had been caught by a perfectly common item. Rather, what would be a common item in a house not occupied solely by two women.

Caleb’s hat rested on the back of the armchair near where Mr. Havens stood.

Margaret stared in horror at the tattered article. _He must have left it there after I told him to go to the kitchen to tend to his head._

“I…” Mr. Havens cleared his throat, eyes fixed on the hat and shifting uncomfortably as Margaret slowly straightened. “Forgive me, I was unaware you had…company, Miss Roe. I suppose it’s for the best then that I only stopped by to give you my apologies that something’s come up and I will be unable to work on the roof today, and to inquire as to whether tomorrow or the next day would be preferable to you.”

Margaret’s face was positively flaming at the implications Mr. Havens hinted at as the man scarcely met her eyes while his speech grew stilted and formal. The hat, her delay in coming to the door…good lord, even her appearance was damning evidence indeed. “Mr. Havens, it’s not what you think…”

“You owe me no explanation, Miss Roe.”

This time he did meet her eyes, and Margaret saw the sincerity there…could she possibly be imagining the slightest touch of hurt as well?

“Would it be acceptable if I came by tomorrow?”

“I…yes, that would be fine—”

“Good. I wish you a pleasant day, then, Miss Roe,” he said brusquely, though not unkindly, and strode back to the door.

“Wait! Wait, _please,_ Mr. Havens…” Margaret called after him, rushing to catch him as he walked out the door. He paused on the stoop, half turned back to her as she stood a step above him in the doorway, the cold air sweeping into the house. “I…” she floundered for a beat, wholly unaware of what she wished to say, or why she even cared. “I don’t wish you to think poorly of me,” she finally murmured.

Rather to her surprise, Margaret realized the words were true. Other people’s perception of her scarcely mattered at all to her anymore; on the list of what was absolutely necessary for her to give mind to, it didn’t even make an appearance. Until now. She considered that perhaps she unconsciously didn’t want anyone to assume she would be unfaithful to Ben…but that couldn’t be it. Mr. Havens believed their relationship over – Margaret was certain he never would have proposed to her otherwise, he had always been much too fond of Ben. Why the mere potential of this one man’s poor opinion of her would drive her to such desperation was lost on her entirely.

His expression softened as he turned to face her fully. “I could never truly think poorly of you, Miss Roe.”

Unexpected relief flooded through her. “I thank you for that, Mr. Havens. You see, the hat…” Margaret faltered as she met his eyes, nearly at a level with hers despite their great difference in height. There was something in them that made it difficult for her to form the lie that should have slipped easily from her tongue. They were too blue. Too kind.

Too much like Ben’s.

_Ben’s are a deeper blue._

She mentally shook herself, exasperated by the thought – as if Ben’s eyes were the basis against which to judge all others.

“The hat is…my brother’s,” she spit out. In a way, it was hardly a lie at all. Caleb and Abraham were the only brothers left to her. “I just…I found it recently and I suppose I’m a bit embarrassed at holding on to something only for sentimentality.”

Mr. Havens’ blanched, an aghast expression dawning on his face that only exacerbated the guilt gnawing at Margaret’s stomach.

“Miss Roe, I—I didn’t even think…that is, I should not have assumed, I…please forgive me,” he stammered, bowing his head.

“No, it’s perfectly all right, I can understand how it could look…unseemly,” Margaret grimaced.

 _It could look as though you, an unmarried woman, were entertaining the company of a man whilst home alone. Which, of course, you are._ But Caleb was not just any man. Oh, if only she could _tell_ Mr. Havens all that!

“Well…in any case, I suppose it’s best I take my leave,” Mr. Havens murmured. “I’ve made enough of a terrible mess of things for one day.”

With a tip of his hat, he continued on his way, his long, determined strides taking him down the path faster than Margaret could manage as she hurried after him.

“Mr. Havens! Mr. Havens, please! _Walter!”_ His Christian name spilling from her lips finally caught him in his tracks and he halted at the turn off to the main road, Margaret slowing a few paces behind him. Her heart pounded furiously; she prayed he’d forgive her tremendous overstep.

As he turned to face her with an indecipherable expression, Margaret twice opened and closed her mouth before settling on what to say. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

He nodded silently, a faint smile forming as he once more tipped his hat and walked away, leaving her on the path outside her home with a slightly lighter rock in her stomach.

Margaret shut the door tightly behind her as she reentered the house, leaning against it with a sigh for only a moment before snatching Caleb’s hat off the chair as she stormed into the kitchen.

“I suppose _this_ is yours?” she snarled, flinging the damnable thing at his chest where he still sat on the floor, only now with a slab of bread he’d nicked in her absence.

“Er…” Caleb looked up at her sheepishly. “I don’t suppose Walt saw it, eh?”

“He most certainly did. And between that, my delay in answering the door, and my appearance, he drew some rather unfortunate conclusions about my…integrity,” Margaret blushed.

“How could he think that?” Caleb exclaimed, sounding exceedingly affronted on her behalf.

“Well, you made it rather easy. Thanks to you, I had to lie to one of the kindest men I know, which could have been avoided if you’d only been _slightly_ less careless! After all, Caleb, this is _secret_ intelligence work, the more people know, the more danger we’re in!” she mocked. “How _you_ of all people could be _stupid_ enough—”

“Yeah, all right, smart-arse.” Caleb scowled, scrambling to his feet. “You know, maybe I’d have been a bit more careful if I hadn’t just had my brains rattled around in my head!”

Margaret rolled her eyes, pressing her palm to her forehead as she paced away from him.

“How did you explain it away?”

“I told him it belonged to my brother,” she sighed.

“Well, he should’ve believed that then, no harm done. Where is the madman, anyways?”

Margaret gripped the back of a chair. They were back where they were before Mr. Havens’ untimely arrival. “He…” she willed her heart to calm from where it beat against her chest like a bird throwing itself against the doors of its cage. “He’s not here.”

“Ah. Actually, that’s all right then,” Caleb replied lightly, oblivious to Margaret’s struggle. “It’s better you hear this from me when we’re alone, then we can talk it over and you’ll hopefully not shout at me too much.”

“Caleb—”

“No, now just listen for a minute then you can say whatever you like, all right? Let me explain it all,” he said to her back. “See, Sackett’s pressuring Ben to expand our merry little band, and Ben’s trying to figure a way to do that with folks we know. So I’m to test the water while I’m here, see if Austin might be interested.”

Margaret stilled, previous resolve to reveal the absolute truth vanishing in an instant as she slowly turned to him. “Ben…Ben wants _Austin?_ To _spy?”_ She let out a harsh laugh entirely devoid of mirth. “You two won’t even _listen_ to a perfectly sound plan from Anna and I, but you want the man who never even learned how to _spell_ the word ‘discretion!’”

“Now, see, this is why I wanted to tell you first,” Caleb held his hands up in surrender.

“Yes, and please do tell why you thought I wouldn’t _SHOUT AT YOU!”_

Caleb dropped his hands down to his sides, giving her an exceedingly cross look as her voice rang through the kitchen. “My mistake.”

Margaret scoffed. “You’re damn right. Once _again,_ we simple-minded women are good enough to wed and bed and bear children and keep house but shan’t be trusted with anything more. We’ve discussed this already, Caleb, I thought you had learned. I suppose that was _my_ mistake,” she finished coldly.

“Now all that is _not_ true, Meg!”

She wheeled around on her heel and began putting away the remnants of the small meal she’d made for Caleb, slamming cupboards closed and keeping her back turned to him to make it emphatically clear how little she was interested in what he had to say.

“Look, he’s not to be another agent!” Caleb entreated, following her as she wound her way through the kitchen. “Come now, you know Ben’s smarter than that—” he blanched at the look Margaret shot his way.

_I know exactly how smart Ben is. And how stupid._

“You need to understand that this isn’t something he could ask you or Anna to do—”

“Oh, do I now?” Margaret turned to him with a forced smile that bordered on a sneer.

“Yes, you do,” Caleb insisted. “Now listen, he’s looking— Meg, please put down the knife.”

Until she looked down, Margaret didn’t realize her paring knife was not only in hand, but was, in fact, rather brandished in front of her. She looked back up at Caleb, not moving an inch.

He sighed. “He’s looking for a second courier.”

Margaret paused. “…a second courier?”

“He thought of it a few days ago, and finding out I missed the last signal only proves that he was right.”

Margaret deliberately set the knife down and turned to face him fully, resting her hip against the edge of the table. “You’ve caught my attention,” she crossed her arms with a raised brow.

“Good!” Caleb grinned, clearly relieved at the break in her mood. “Yeah, so there may be times where I’m not going to see the signal, right? Well, Bennyboy thought ‘what if there was someone already in Setauket who could take the intelligence right to us?’” Caleb explained animatedly. “It might take a bit of time to figure it all out, but if something comes along that we should know immediately, or if the signal is up for a week without my coming here, Austin would take it straight to headquarters himself, or at least the nearest Continental camp, where they could send it on to us. Not bad, eh?”

“No,” Margaret admitted. “Not bad at all.”

“So where is he? I need to talk with him and be on my way back to Jersey before nightfall.”

Margaret didn’t know how to answer him. She truly didn’t. She desperately wanted to tell Caleb the truth; her continued dishonesty with him brought her greater shame than nearly anything else she’d done. There was an unfathomable chasm between lying to one’s enemy and lying to one’s friend. However…how could she tell him? How could she tell any of them what she’d done? She felt her heart begin to race at the thought of their disappointment. Their disbelief. Their disgust.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

_If I tell the truth, will I lose them?_

Margaret abruptly pivoted back to her cleaning in an attempt to hide her disquiet from Caleb’s warm, questioning eyes. _You_ must _tell the truth. There is no alternative now, he expects Austin to agree to be a bloody courier!_ As she opened her mouth, though, whatever courage or madness she’d earlier possessed was nowhere to be found. She couldn’t do it; not yet. She had to stall.

“You’re sure you couldn’t stay for the night? It’d do you good to get some rest, and I know Anna will be upset she missed you. Besides, I know you’d be safe here.”

“You know I’d like nothing more, Maggie-lass, but as soon as I’ve got an answer from Austin, I really should be heading on my way. I made my delivery, set up a new signal, and with that fine piece of intelligence Abe got from the major here, I need to get back to camp.”

“A piece of intelligence _Abe_ got from Major Hewlett?” Margaret frowned, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Yeah, it’s a beauty too, let me tell you,” Caleb grinned. _“All_ the troop locations on Long Island, can you believe that?”

Margaret’s eyes went wide. “No,” she seethed. “No, I truly can’t.”

 _Why on_ earth _would he take credit for my intelligence?_

“It’s a fine gem to take back with me, that’s for sure. I thought you knew?”

Margaret at first considered telling him of Abe’s deception, but thought better of it. _I’ll speak to Abraham first, ask him about it,_ she told her herself silently. _Then_ he _can tell them he lied._ “I didn’t know the specifics,” she responded aloud.

“Apparently the Major let it slip during conversation. Lucky, that,” Caleb said idly as he warmed his hands at the fire.

She narrowed her eyes. “Mm. Lucky.”

“All eyes are on New York, all the time. Company positions on Long Island is exactly the sort of thing we need right now, make sure Washington knows he made the right choice, you know? Now all he’s got to do is trust it. Trust _us.”_

A thought suddenly flitted through Margaret’s mind. An awful thought. A thought that would only pull the strings of her terrible web of lies tighter. But perhaps…perhaps if she did some good along the way, if she truly helped their cause…perhaps they would be more inclined to forgive her dishonesty. Perhaps they’d be more willing to try and understand. Perhaps it was all salvageable after all.

She only needed to lie for just a bit longer.

“Look, Caleb, this intelligence from Abe, you _truly_ think Washington will appreciate it? It’ll help the cause?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“And…” she furrowed her brow. “And this courier business with Austin, it wouldn’t be too terribly often, would it?”

Caleb paused, considering. “I don’t suppose so, at least not right away. For now I suppose he’d be more a recourse to get information quickly.”

Margaret nodded slowly. _I’m going to regret this._ “Then I’ll convince him. I’ll make sure he agrees.”

She hated herself just a little bit more at the delight on Caleb’s face.

“That’s my girl!” He rushed towards her with a grin, grabbing her in a semblance of his usual bear hug and spinning her round in a circle.

Margaret shrieked in surprise as her feet left the floor. “Caleb!” she attempted a tone of reprimand, but it was spoiled by the laugh slipping from her lips. “Caleb, put me down!”

He did as asked, but grabbed her face and pressed a scratchy kiss to her cheek. “Perfection, Maggie!”

She managed a feeble smile.

_Just one run, Margaret, one run to prove your worth. Then you’ll come clean, help the cause with a clear conscience._

_Provided they’re all still speaking to you._

“Just…if you do happen to see Abe, or Anna, don’t say anything to them yet, hm? I…” _I need to be able to tell them what I’ve done before they find out._ “I don’t want Austin to know I said yes for him—though I’m sure he’ll do it regardless.”

“That I can do. Tell Austin I’ll be leaving instructions from Ben and Sackett in the tree soon.”

“All right,” she nodded, turning back to the table and setting Caleb’s empty plate with the other used dishes. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Caleb lean against the table and reach up to his head with a small wince. “How’s your head feeling?”

“I’ll live,” he grumbled.

“I can go get some more snow to put on it,” she offered.

He waved her off. “Nah, it’ll be fine. Just…if that was your best plan and you couldn’t even knock me out, promise me if someone else ever breaks into your house and Austin’s not here, you’ll run instead.” He gave her a small grin, but Margaret could see the sincerity in his eyes. He was worried about her.

“I do hope it won’t become a regular occurrence,” she drolled, “but I’ll have you know that I did think of grabbing my pistol. That is, if it weren’t upstairs.”

“Even if you did have it, could you hit anything?”

“I see you assume I know how to load it.” She let out a laugh at his horrified expression.

“You really shouldn’t tell me things like, Maggie-lass,” Caleb groaned. “It only makes me worry more.”

“I _do_ know how to load it,” she grinned. “But no, I truly don’t know if I could hit anything…” she trailed off. _Your life is about to get far more dangerous, Margaret Roe. You shouldn’t even think of traveling to another state alone without knowing how to protect yourself._ She turned to Caleb with a hopeful look. “I need a favor.”

He gave her a wry smile. “Anything for you, my dearest lady.”

* * *

_Long Island Woods_

“Again.”

“I can’t.”

“You _can._ Now, again.”

Margaret wiped the back of her hand across her damp forehead as she and Caleb moved once more into position; Caleb bending his knees and readying himself to “attack” her, Margaret forcing harsh breaths through her nose as she prepared to try and fend him off.

“All right. Go.”

The exercise went roughly as well as the others had. Margaret lowered her center as he’d instructed, kept her fists raised, and tried to anticipate his movement, yet even as she twisted out of his reach when he approached and managed to get around him to start running away, he quickly matched her speed and caught her arm, spinning her into his arms in a tight hold she was unable to break.

Fast approaching tears of frustration, Margaret gave up her struggle and went still in his arms. “Let me go. Let me go!”

“All right, lass.”

Margaret stalked away from him as he released her, roughly pushing her hair from her face as she tried to control her breathing. “I can’t do this, Caleb. I _can’t,_ all right? I asked you to teach me to shoot, not…all this!” she gestured wildly.

More than two hours before, the two had trekked deep into the woods to find a clearing far enough from any civilization that they could shoot without being discovered. Caleb set up various targets by marking trees with a charred stick and they quickly got to work, Margaret first attempting to shoot with one of Caleb’s larger and more reliable pistols. He corrected her posture and taught her how to aim quickly but accurately until he was confident with her ability to reload, aim, and shoot the target (or close to it, anyways) in a matter of seconds. When he expressed surprise at how well she took to it, she’d been forced to admit that Ben had once tried to teach her, but they’d been interrupted by a furious Reverend Tallmadge before she’d gained any true skill. Only then did they move on to working with Margaret’s much smaller muff pistol, which was harder to aim and covered far less distance, but was what she’d likely be using if ever necessary. To that end, she argued they should begin with the muff pistol, but Caleb insisted she be most familiar with a “proper gun,” as he called it.

Once they were both satisfied with her progress, Margaret began collecting her things, only to have Caleb stop her and say that while they were there, she was going to learn how to hold her own in a fight, too. Margaret reluctantly agreed, seeing the sense in it (for her own reasoning was as well as whatever Caleb’s might’ve been), and they began what Margaret found to be ridiculously intensive and difficult training, including nothing less than throwing punches, blocking, learning weak points on the body, reading body language to anticipate strikes, and escaping an attacker’s hold.

“I _know_ you didn’t ask for this,” Caleb replied, pulling Margaret back to the present. “But you need to know how to defend yourself. It’s for your own good, Peggy.”

“Margaret,” she corrected almost absentmindedly, propping her hands on her hips as sweat slid uncomfortably down her back.

“Look, you know what you need to do, it’s just a matter of putting it into practice; of thinking on your feet and—”

“I can think on my feet just fine,” she snapped. _If only you knew how well._ “That isn’t the problem, it’s that you’re far stronger than me—”

“That doesn’t matter,” Caleb shook his head.

“It does!”

“It doesn’t. I’ve been able to take down lads twice my size ‘cause I fought to my advantage. They were stronger but I’m faster. You just need to figure out what _your_ advantage is, Peggy.”

 _“Margaret,”_ she ground out.

“Yeah, yeah,” he waved his hand, brushing her aside. “C’mon now, let’s start again.”

Margaret rolled her eyes. This was the last time. If she couldn’t manage to fend him off, she was leaving afterwards for certain. She moved to face Caleb, bending her knees and watching him carefully, trying to figure out what his first move would be. He noticed her eyeing his every move and nodded encouragingly, waiting only a moment before lunging at her and grabbing at her left arm. She was ready for him, however, and slammed the palm of her right hand against his wrist, successfully knocking his hand away.

“Good!” Caleb gave her a sharp grin.

Margaret nodded, trying not to become so caught up in the euphoria of making one single correct move that she missed the next. He lunged at her again, this time with both hands reaching for her wrists. She quickly stepped back again, but gasped as her back hit a tree. He’d planned on her backing up so he could corner her. She ducked under the arm coming her way again and twisted around him to run away but found herself restrained as Caleb turned equally quickly and snatched her by the waist, his arm tightening as she tried to run forward—

 _ **—**_ _**a familiar arm wrapped around her waist and Selah was there again, holding her to himself, holding her back, his deep voice in her ear telling her to stop until the men shouldered their arms even as she strained and struggled against him—**_

Margaret’s heart seized, her breath stuck in her throat as the woods shifted around her. She immediately struggled against the hold like an animal in a trap, desperate to break free by any means.

“Guess I was wrong then,” Caleb taunted, anchoring her to the present as the trees once more solidified in front of her. “You don’t have an advantage. This was all just a waste of time, then, for poor little Peggy.”

Fire surged through Margaret’s veins at his words.

 _Prove him wrong,_ her mind whispered. _Prove them all wrong._

She slowed her useless struggle, closing her eyes. _You don’t think when you’re angry. You can’t be angry._

_**What’s your advantage?** _

_I’m not stronger or faster._

_**What’s your advantage?** _

_I’m not stronger. I’m not faster. But I_ am _smarter._

Margaret grinned.

She tried two useless moves to throw him off the scent, stamping down on his foot, then straining against his hold for a moment, as if she was trying to break free by force alone.

“That’s really the best you can do?” Caleb grunted.

It was as if an invisible string holding her upright was cut, and Margaret went limp in his arms.

She plummeted towards the forest floor as Caleb was unprepared to hold her full weight, and barely caught her before she hit.

“Maggie!”

She forced herself to maintain her state, leaving her eyes closed and allowing her head to loll back as he turned her over in his arms and gently placed her on the ground.

“Maggie! What…Peggy!” He stepped to her side and cupped her cheek, lightly smacking his fingers against it. “Peggy, look at me!”

Margaret refused to allow herself to feel guilt over the unrestrained fear in his voice. He wanted her to learn how to defend herself and this was how she could do it. She slit her eyes open, peeking under lashes for the briefest moment to determine his exact location before fully opening her eyes and slamming the palm of her hand into his throat. He staggered upright with wide eyes as Margaret shifted her weight to her left hip and elbow, swinging her right leg around with all her might into the backs of Caleb’s knees, successfully buckling them and causing him to fall prone, gasping for breath. She sprung upright before he could even begin to move and planted a foot on his chest, pressing down lightly.

“My name is _Margaret.”_

Caleb stared at her in shock for a moment before wide grin broke out on his face. “That it is,” he choked out. “That it is.”

Margaret removed her foot and held a hand down to him to help him to his feet. He coughed several times as he rose, rubbing his throat.

“You nearly scared the life outta me, you know that?”

She shrugged. “I know you were baiting me, trying to get me to snap. All’s fair.”

“I’d tried just about everything else, I thought making you angry might push you where you needed to be.”

Margaret tugged her kerchief free from her jacket, using it to wipe her damp neck and face. “I suppose it did, in a way. Just not the way you intended,” she smirked.

Caleb offered her a quirked eyebrow in lieu of a question as he trudged to his pile of belongings, grabbing his canteen and taking a large swig of its contents – whether it was water or spirits, Margaret wasn’t sure.

Margaret grabbed her own canteen – which was generally only used on her trips to Smithtown and _always_ only filled with water – and followed suit. “What I mean is,” she continued once she’d drunk her fill, “your taunting made me realize my frustration had been working against me the whole time – I don’t think things through the way I should when I’m angry or upset. And _that’s_ my advantage. Seeing an opportunity and acting accordingly. I knew if I could distract you enough, I’d be able to surprise you with the physical techniques you taught me and gain the upper hand.”

“Well, you’ve been a damn fine student, lass,” Caleb toasted her with his canteen. “Just be careful, though, eh? A trick like the one you just pulled on me is only gonna work once in a real fight.”

“I know,” Margaret nodded, rolling her shoulders as a prickle ran up her neck. _Oh, not again._ “I suppose after that I’ll just have to—”

“Shh.”

She looked to Caleb, any affront she may have felt at his interruption immediately melting into fear at the tense set of his shoulders and the way his eyes darted amongst the trees as he slowly turned in a circle.

“What’s wrong?” she breathed, not moving a muscle.

“I don’t know,” he replied, equally as softly. “I heard something.”

Long, agonizing moments passed before he stopped turning, shook his head with a deep frown, and Margaret dared to speak. “There are a great many creatures in these woods, you know that as well as I,” she murmured. “We are both exhausted and wary of discovery – any small animal could be unconsciously playing tricks on us.”

Caleb sighed, finally tearing his eyes from the trees to look at her. “I suppose you’re right. I didn’t see a thing and I haven’t heard anything else.”

She clasped a hand around his arm. “Come, let’s sit for a moment to gather our wits before heading on our way.”

The two gathered their long-since abandoned outerwear and quickly donned it as the cold made itself known to them again. Caleb brushed away the snow at the base of a large tree and they sat next to each other, both taking deep breaths and small sips of water while occasionally glancing around through the trees, considerably more ill at ease than they had been only moments before. Margaret certainly trusted that Caleb would only let his guard down as such if he were certain they were safe, but the tingle up her spine kept her on edge. She sighed, pulling her mitts off again to pour a bit of water into her cupped palm and splash on her face and neck.

“There’s something I wanted to give you, Maggie-lass,” Caleb told her suddenly, digging through his coat as she dried her face with her handkerchief. “I thought of it earlier...here!” he said triumphantly, removing a small object from one of the many pockets.

Margaret set her canteen aside, taking the object with a frown and removing a thin, wickedly sharp blade from its leather sheath. “A knife?”

“Stiletto blade. Sharp, small, easy to wield and easier to conceal. Even if there’s some reason you can’t have your little pistol with you, you can still carry this. Next time I come I’ll leave one in the tree for Anna.”

“I can certainly see its usefulness, thank you.” She sheathed it, shifting to slide it in her pocket.

“No, you don’t need to keep it in your pocket, see, that’s the beauty of it! A…friend of mine showed me you can keep it in your stays, that way it’s far easier to get to than any other weapon! You just slide it – in the sheath, obviously – in the front with your busk, or if you have front lacing, behind that after you’ve tightened it.”

Margaret’s cheeks blazed while Caleb detailed exactly where in her underpinnings she should store a deadly weapon. The man, bless him, truly knew no shame. “I…suppose it makes sense to place it behind my front lacing. In any case, how did you come to learn so much about the intricacies of stays?” she arched an eyebrow.

Caleb smirked. “Well—”

“No! Never mind, I do not wish to know,” Margaret closed her eyes, immediately realizing her mistake.

He chuckled. “Anyways, that’ll hopefully come in handy to you. Someone else breaks into your house and you don’t have your pistol on you, you’ll still be armed.”

“Lord, Caleb, you keep saying that as if you _expect_ my house to be broken into!” Margaret frowned.

Caleb looked away with a furrowed brow, causing Margaret’s suspicion to rise in an unpleasant way. “Caleb, what is this truly about?” At his continued silence, she rose to her knees, turning to look at him head on. “Caleb. Please.”

He closed his eyes with a sigh, leaning his head back against the tree. “Simcoe.”

A chill ran down Margaret’s spine that had nothing to do with the January weather. “Have you heard news of him?”

“No. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t a threat.”

She scoffed. “You sound like Abe. But I…it is good to know how to defend myself, I’ll gladly admit to that,” she furrowed her brow, “but if Simcoe does return to Setauket and pursues Anna, I alone won’t be enough to stop him, no matter what you teach me today, surely you realize that?”

Caleb opened his eyes with a pained expression. “It’s not Anna we’re worried about.”

“While I’m sure Abe could only hold his own against Simco for so long, I’m sure he wouldn’t appreciate me stepping in in such a way,” Margaret smirked. “Or...do you...” her stomach dropped. “You couldn’t possibly mean...”

Caleb looked down at his hands, his silence confirmation enough.

It was outlandish, though, as far as Margaret knew her animosity towards the cruel man was entirely one-sided. “I’ve had no real run-ins with the man,” _sort of,_ “why on earth would you believe—”

“Because we fucked it all up, Maggie!”

She couldn’t tell whether he was shouting more at her or himself.

“Sorry, I…” He sighed and continued in a far quieter voice. “We fucked it up from the first, and you’re the ones who’ll be paying the price for it. From what Abe told me all those months ago, the bastard was already far too interested in both him and Anna – for entirely different reasons – before we idiots ever interfered, and now…”

“…now?”

“He’s far sharper than we guessed – than he led us to believe, at first. He kept taunting us – Ben especially – even as we…well,” Caleb cleared his throat, “even as we tried to get him to talk. I thought we were doing alright ignoring him, but then he started throwing out names, guessing who we could be close to here. Who was important to us.”

“And he guessed…me?” Margaret whispered, feeling as though she’d swallowed a mouthful of dust.

“Aye. And he knew…he _knew_ somehow, I swear to you I didn’t see Ben react, but he must’ve…must’ve…I don’t know!” he groaned, scrubbing his hands down his face. “And I didn’t hear it at the time, but Ben told me Simcoe already threatened to come find you.”

Margaret stared blankly at the trees over Caleb’s shoulder silently for a moment, a boulder settling in her stomach. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she finally asked.

“You didn’t need to know.”

“I didn’t _need—”_

“No! You didn’t. We don’t know when Simcoe’s returning, or even _if_ he will! You didn’t need to be worried about it, constantly looking over your shoulder – I won’t apologize for giving you a few months’ peace of mind!” Caleb exclaimed. “And all right, I’ll admit it’s likely for the best that you know now, what with all the prisoner exchanges that have been happening since the new year.”

“You should have told me before,” Margaret insisted coldly.

_He has a right to know._

“Dammit,” she whispered, eyes sliding shut.

Anger rushed through her, setting her chest aflame. Anger at Simcoe, at Caleb, at Ben, at herself most of all. Anger at the entire tangled mess they’d created. She staggered to her feet, pacing rapidly. She didn’t want this. She didn’t need this. Caleb was right, this new fear would consume her if she let it.

“DAMMIT!” She drove her fist into the bark of a nearby tree, pain immediately shooting up her arm.

“Maggie…” Caleb sighed from somewhere behind her.

She shook her hand out, tears pricking the corners of her eyes as a throbbing ache in her knuckles grew.

“You know, I didn’t teach you how to throw a proper punch so you could run around attacking defenseless trees,” Caleb admonished dryly, appearing in front of her. “Here, let me see.” He gently took her right hand in both of his, peering at the broken and rapidly swelling skin. “That’s gonna be a nasty bruise there, lass. Try to curl your fingers.”

Margaret did as she was bid, albeit with a grimace as the sharp ache echoed through her hand.

“Mm. Don’t think anything’s broken,” he mused while methodically pressing areas on her fingers and knuckles between his thumb and forefinger, ignoring her noises of pain. “Allow me to return the favor from before, eh?” he smirked, releasing her hand to scoop a fistful of snow into his handkerchief and pressing it to her hand as she half laughed half groaned, holding the bundle in place.

“I’m sorry.” Caleb kept his eyes on Margaret’s hand. “I don’t regret keeping this from you for the time that I did, but I’m sorry all the same that you have reason to be frightened.”

_**…a tall redcoat with pale eyes and a cruel smile violently yanked Austin away—** _

_He **smiled** , _Margaret suddenly remembered. _He smiled when he dragged Austin to the gallows and he smiled when he kicked the bench away._

_What is a man like that capable of?_

She was trembling. When had that happened? She thought for half a moment it was merely the cold affecting her, but the furious pounding of her heart and shallow breaths betrayed her as the handkerchief slipped from her grasp.

“Shite, Maggie…C’mere, love,” Caleb sounded heartbroken as he pulled her to his chest, enveloping her in his coat and wrapping his arms around her tightly enough that she would have felt suffocated if not for the sudden notion that his arms were the only thing keeping her from breaking apart entirely.

“What will he do to me?” Margaret gasped into his collarbone.

 _“Nothing.”_ The hitch in Caleb’s voice did nothing to undermine the ferocity of his answer. He cupped the back of her head in his hand. “He won’t do anything to you, I won’t let him. Ben won’t let him. You tell Anna and Abe and Austin about this, and they won’t let him either.”

Margaret shook her head against his shoulder. “Anna and Abraham have their own reasons to be wary of Simcoe, I can’t burden them with this.”

“Well, it’s up to you, but I think they should know. No matter what, you tell your brother, and he’ll protect you with his life, I know he will. You won’t need to be afraid.”

A familiar ache pulled at Margaret’s soul. Whenever it rose within her, she thought it must be how one with a lost limb feels: you know it’s gone, and you’ve learned to live without it, but every so often you forget. And you expect it to be there. And when it is not, it’s almost as if you’ve lost it all over again.

_He would’ve protected me. He would’ve shot Simcoe where he stood the moment he dared to look at me wrong. I never had to be afraid before._

_I don’t know how to be brave without you, Austin._

Margaret was suddenly tired. Her trembling had nearly vanished, and it was as if it had taken her will to fight with it. _Just tell him the truth._ She could. It would be terribly easy to confess it all right then, just as she nearly had hours before. He would be angry – nay, furious – and above all else hurt, but he could take her back to camp with him that very day. This time tomorrow she could be in Ben’s arms instead of Caleb’s.

“Caleb…” she drew back slightly to look him in the eye.

“What is it, lass?”

_But what use will you be then?_

“I…”

_Just one run, Margaret, one run to prove your worth. Then you’ll come clean, help the cause with a clear conscience._

_You can last ‘til then._

“It’s getting late, you should be on your way.”

“Maggie…”

She couldn’t stand the concern in his voice. She didn’t deserve it. “No, I know you’ve stayed too long as it is – you said you need to get the intelligence back.” She tried to pull away, searching the ground for where her mitts had fallen from her lap when she stood. “I’m sorry I’ve kept you—”

“Hey,” he held onto her elbows. “Don’t you apologize. And don’t hide from me, eh?” he ducked his head to catch her eyes. “Being afraid is nothing to be ashamed of.”

She nodded slowly, recognizing the truth of his words. “I…I know. I just can’t help but think that no matter the advantage, or pistol, or stiletto, I won’t…” she drew in a shaky breath. She wouldn’t break down again, she couldn’t. Simcoe would get no tears from her. Not today, at least. “I won’t stand a chance.”

Caleb gave her a pained look, his hands tightening around her upper arms. “Don’t… _Christ,_ don’t say things like that. Now you listen to me, Maggie-lass,” he shifted closer to her. “If anything happens and you’re alone, _run._ There’s no shame in running when you know you can’t win, that should _always_ be your first move. I know it goes against your nature, but swear to me you’ll run _away_ from a fight, not towards it. If you have to fight to get away, though, make good use of your weapons, and use any means necessary – there’s no such thing as fighting dirty when you’re fighting for your life. Lastly, if you’re on the run, don’t tire yourself out too fast, rest often for short amounts of time. Double back whenever you can, it’ll make it harder for someone to track you – walk in circles from time to time if you can. Use the sun as your compass – east in the morning, west in the evening. And you can last longer without food than without water, so that’s always your priority.”

Margaret’s mind spun at the barrage of information. She silently repeated phrases over as he said them, praying she’d remember them all. Praying she’d never need to.

“Thank you, Caleb, I hope I remember it all. And I promise I’ll at least try to run _away,”_ she gave him a half smile. “Now,” she stared at her hands, unable to meet his eyes, “you must swear something to me. If you get word from Abe or Anna that…that something’s happened, I want you to tell Ben—”

“You tell him yourself,” he cut her off. “I won’t have you talking like that, you hear me?” he gave her shoulders a light shake, forcing her eyes up to his. “Nothing is going to happen to you. You’ll see him again. You _will._ Even if I have to row him across the Sound myself.”

The small smile he gave her was infectious as always, and Margaret felt her spirit faintly lighten. “All right,” she whispered.

“Which reminds me, there’s one more thing: if you’re ever on the run, get to water if you can. They can’t be track you, and you have an incredible advantage in knowing how to swim – most don’t.”

“Please, I haven’t properly swum in years,” she scoffed. “I don’t see how I could possibly—"

“It doesn’t leave you,” Caleb shook his head. “You grew up in the Sound, same as me. It’s a part of you, lass. The water’s in your soul,” he tapped a finger lightly in the center of her chest. “If you can make it to water, you’ll always stand a chance.”

* * *

After an ardent promise to be cautious and a reluctant farewell to Caleb, Margaret was nearly home again after leaving him at the edge of the woods. The thought of supper tantalized her growling stomach as she rounded the last bend that brought her in sight of her house, as well as the shape of someone meandering down the path a short way ahead. Could it possibly be…? She quickened her step.

It was! None other than Walter Havens walked towards her. He raised his eyes at the sound of her approach and met her with an uneasy smile and a tip of his hat.

“Miss Roe, a pleasure,” he greeted in his pleasant voice.

“Mr. Havens! I didn’t expect to see you over here on my side of town again today,” she smiled, desperately hoping it was enough to put the awkwardness of the afternoon behind them.

“Truth be told, I came to see you, Miss Roe.”

“Margaret,” she blurted out. “Please, Mr. Havens, I’ve known you my entire life, you must call me Margaret – or Meg, I don’t have a preference.”

“Oh!” Mr. Havens sounded a bit surprised by her request, though more than slightly pleased. “You must call me Walter, then. Or you can continue to call me Mr. Havens, of course,” he quickly added, “whatever you are comfortable with…Margaret.”

“I thank you…Walter,” she grinned. “Anyways, you said you came to speak to me?”

“Er…yes, I did. Were you on your way home?”

She nodded and took his proffered elbow, biting back a wince at her injured hand connecting with his coat while she clumsily wrapped it around his arm with stiff fingers.

She apparently was none too adept at hiding her discomfort as Walter’s eyes darted to her hand and he froze. A bloodstained piece of cloth peeked out from under the mitt she had tenderly pulled on after Caleb tied his handkerchief tightly around her knuckles.

“Margaret, what…” he removed her hand from his arm, holding it carefully. He gently lifted the soft wool to get a better look. “I…pardon, do you mind?”

She sighed as she took her hand back, pulling her thumb free and folding back the fabric to bare her hand before presenting it to him again. God only knew how she’d get herself out of this one.

Walter untied the handkerchief, apologizing when it stuck to her skin and he had to slowly pull it free, revealing her brilliantly colored knuckles patterned with broken skin and dried blood. “How did this happen?”

His voice was unlike how she’d ever heard it. He practically growled the phrase as he stared intently at her wounded hand, the shock of it stunning her into silence for a moment.

“Who did this to you?” he met Margaret’s eyes, allowing her to see the fury in them. Fury that rapidly shifted to dread as the color drained from his face. “The vase…did someone— that is, when I stopped by earlier…” he looked sick. “Dear God, Margaret, did this happen because you were _defending_ yourself?”

“What?” _What vase?_ “Oh!” _The broken vase you could barely explain away when you answered the door looking completely disheveled…or perhaps looking ravished?_ “No! No, it wasn’t that at all, I…” Margaret bit her lip. “I suppose it’s a bit of a long story, but I did this to myself,” she quickly explained. “You see, I lost my temper a short while ago, and I took my anger out on a rather unforgiving surface, which fared far better than I did,” she smiled faintly, hoping to lighten the air.

Walter searched her face for a prolonged moment before nodding, seemingly satisfied at what he found there. “Can you move your fingers?” he asked as he began wrapping her hand once more in the cloth.

“Yes. I don’t believe anything’s broken. It was truthfully quite childish of me to have such an outburst, I know that.” She rearranged her mitt back to its proper place as Walter finished securing the handkerchief and moved to her other side, offering his right arm instead. She took it with a smile.

“If you don’t mind my curiosity,” he began as they started down the road, “what was it that you struck?”

“…a tree.” Margaret mumbled reluctantly.

Walter burst out laughing. He had a deep, warm laugh that Margaret didn’t think she’d ever heard before; though different in timbre, it reminded her of Caleb’s laugh – the kind that made you want to laugh along with him.

“Yes, well, I didn’t say I exactly thought it through,” she huffed with little true annoyance.

“No, I apologize,” he chuckled, “I shouldn’t make light of your pain.” He sobered as they neared the path leading to Margaret’s front door. “Before we part, I should tell you my reason for coming this way again.”

“Yes, what is it?”

“Well…I wanted to apologize. For my unforgivable behavior earlier,” he elaborated at her questioning glance. “I don’t know what came over me to make such a ridiculous – and surely offensive – assumption.”

“Oh, Walter, I understand how it must’ve looked, you needn’t apologize—”

“No, Margaret, I was in the wrong. And I learned nothing and made another mistaken assumption just a moment ago…but hopefully you can understand my thinking then as well.”

“Of course I can,” she said softly. Even if he was wrong, it certainly made sense why he would see it that way. And…she wasn’t going to pretend she wasn’t touched by his concern.

“Anyways, over the past few hours I’ve thought on why I may have acted the way I did earlier, and I suppose I was…well, I suppose I was embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?” Margaret questioned as they turned towards the house. “Whatever for?”

“At the notion that I might have made a right arse of myself in asking for your hand,” he replied quietly. “Er…pardon my language.”

“Never mind that, how could you say such a thing about yourself?” Margaret was aghast.

“At the time, it occurred to me that perhaps you were…seeing someone that I was unaware of, and not only did I make you an offer once and was refused, but I was planning on speaking with you of it again. You see, I’m not as young as I once was,” he murmured, his cheeks tinged pink, “and I suddenly thought I must have appeared quite the old fool.”

“No, Walter, never.” Margaret turned to him, boldly reaching a hand up to rest on his cheek as they stopped at her door. “I didn’t see you as a fool, I could never think that of you. You’re one of the kindest men I’ve ever known. And you are hardly as old as all that,” she chuckled, glad to be successful in pulling a smile from his downtrodden face. She pulled her hand back with a blush. “And...while I am certainly not seeing anyone, I must also tell you I’ve given great consideration to your generous proposal several times since you made it all those months ago. But…”

“You needn’t say anything else, Margaret,” Walter said kindly.

“I only… Please understand that even now, I find myself…” she tucked an escaped curl behind her ear with a frustrated sigh. She held greater hope than ever that she would one day be reunited with Ben; she couldn’t exactly tell Walter that, however. “I am still mourning my parents and my brother, and…and everyone I lost last year, in one way or another. Do you understand?”

He nodded. “I do, Margaret. And I would never ask for that which you are unwilling to give.”

“Which means more to me than you could know. And…who knows what the future may bring?” Margaret pondered truthfully. No matter her hopes and prayers, each turn of fate had surprised her time and again. For better and worse.

“Indeed,” Walter smiled softly at her.

Somewhere behind her, a cloud shifted, bathing Walter’s face in the warm light of the setting sun. For a breath, he appeared…younger; his eyes a deeper blue, the gray in his hair turned to honey-blonde. Margaret blinked, and the clouds had shifted once more.

Walter reached to her, gently taking her hands in his. “Margaret, I know I could never be Benjamin—”

The words struck her to the core.

“—and I know you and I could never share what you and he did, but if you ever change your mind, I am here. In three weeks or three months, I am here. In whatever way you’ll have me.”

Margaret swallowed hard. “I do not deserve your kindness,” she murmured.

“I find that exceedingly difficult to believe,” Walter returned. “But I do believe I’ve taken up enough of your time today, so I’ll take my leave.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll come by in the afternoon.”

“A pleasant day to you, Walter.”

“And you, Margaret.”

Margaret watched him walk away from with a strange feeling in her stomach. He was halfway to the main road when he paused, turning back towards her.

“Oh, and Margaret?” he called to her.

“Yes?”

“Do try and avoid any trees until then.”

At that, she let out a loud, proper burst of laughter. “I give you no promises, Walter,” she called back with a grin.

With a tip of his hat, he was on his way again. Margaret shook her head with a fond smile as she turned to enter her house, pausing just as she was about to step up over the threshold. A prickle ran up the back of her neck. _There it is again._ The damnable feeling had persistently followed her for more than a week for no discernable reason. It had been more than slightly unsettling to feel it in the woods, and see Caleb sense something nearby at the same moment. She looked over her shoulder. There was Walter, walking back towards town, the neighboring houses, the line of trees leading into the woods surrounding Setauket in the near distance, and…nothing else. Perhaps her guilty conscience had been playing tricks on her. Perhaps she was merely imagining it after the nearly immeasurable array of emotions and surprises she’d been subjected to that day.

Caleb. Simcoe. Ben. Walter. Abraham. _Washington._

Margaret shook her head, stepping into her house and decisively closing the door. _If only I were subjected to fewer difficult men._ She pressed her back against the door and slid down until she sat on the floor, arms resting on her bent knees. _It’s too much._ She tipped her head back in exhaustion, the past resting on her mind lightly as a millstone.

Samuel imprisoned as well as Selah; Austin and Thomas dead. They were the idolized older brothers of Margaret and her friends growing up – all except Selah, of course, though he was considered such through his close friendship with the others. They had been there for anything. For everything. Advice, teasing, comfort, protection…they were always there. And now they were all gone.

_It’s down to us, now._

What with Ben coming upon near-death experiences more than any person had a right, Abraham’s irrational behavior putting himself in constant danger of getting caught, Anna taking everyone’s burdens upon her shoulders while ignoring her own, and Caleb constantly crossing enemy lines – whether necessary or not – Margaret idly thought it felt now that the fate of the nation rested on the shoulders of children; children unable to care even for themselves. For, of course, there in the middle of it all was Margaret, twisting her web around and around well enough to make any spider proud; lies, secrets, truths all woven together in a tangled mess as she found new and old strings to tug on, willfully pulling them ever tighter about her, shutting her eyes to those constricting the tightest around her neck.

Just tight enough to hang her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!! I'm alive!! That was quite a delay, but wow my personal life has gone through the ringer over the past couple of months. Honestly I got a little nervous posting this chapter since it's been a couple of months, I was afraid my writing suffered in the lapse. However, like I said, I'm back! We are back on for regular updates to knock the rest of book 1 out in a timely manner. 
> 
> IMPORTANT -- I have updated the tags to this story now that I have a better idea not only what is for sure going to happen in the latter half, but also how to tag better. However, these are HEAVY spoiler tags, so be forewarned before you look.  
> I've also gone back and made some minor adjustments to previous chapters -- mainly just some mistakes I've caught, or inaccurate word choices ((such as my patriots drinking tea when they absolutely should've only been drinking coffee - whoops! Especially since that'll come into play next chapter)).  
> Also, I noticed my author's notes still had my old tumblr url, so I've updated that now lol, you can find me @ginfueledmusings
> 
> So...our girl is making some Not Good choices here. We also did skip episode 6, I just had no filler Setauket plot to add in there, and the story needs to move forward, so to ep 7 we go! Let me tell you, next chap is gonna be...interesting. I'm honestly not sure what the reaction to it will be lol! Also, Caleb! Caleb and Margaret! I never expected to get so many comments on them back in chapter three, but I'm glad you all loved their relationship as much as I do, and I hope you liked this whole chapter of them together! Let me know what you thought!
> 
> Enjoy!  
> -Gin


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